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WARREN'S 



Reading Selections, 



AN INTRODUCTION 



ILLUSTRATING 



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BY 

Mrs. D. M. WARREN, 



LATE TEACHER OF ELOCUTION IN VASSAR COLLEGE, AND AUTHOR OF " MANUAL 
OF ELOCUTION." 




PHILADELPHIA: 
W. S. FORTESCUE & CO., 

(Successors to E. C. &> % Biddle,) 

811 Arch Street. 
1879. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by 

W. S. FORTESCUE & CO., 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 






PREFACE 



^PHERE are three essential features to be desired 
-*■ in a Reading Book. First, the selections should 
possess true literary merit and a healthy moral tone ; 
second, they should be adapted to the capacity, and 
appeal to the sympathies and interests, of the young; 
and third, they should form a wide range of vocal 
practice. Long experience as a teacher has impressed 
upon the compiler the needs of the pupil in these par- 
ticulars. 

The Arts and Sciences, History, Mathematics, etc., 
have their special allotment in the school-room ; the 
Reading Book also has its place to fill. In one sense, 
it covers a wide field as a means of education. In it 
are grouped a variety of Authors, each treating of 
different themes; each, by historical narration, patri- 
otic enthusiasm, grand description, pathetic appeal, or 
stirring oratory, serves to impress the mind for all 
time with corresponding sentiments. Too much care, 
therefore, cannot be taken in the choice of selections. 

It is not a book for information or entertainment, 
neither is it a Compendium of English Literature. Its 



IV PREFACE. 

chief object is to furnish useful and appropriate exer- 
cises for reading aloud. To this end, a great variety 
of prose and poetry, of varied rhetorical style, em- 
bodying the different emotions to which the human 
heart is susceptible, is essential. 

Fully aware of the urgent demand for fresh selec- 
tions, the compiler has introduced many that are new, 
and, she believes, not found in other Readers. With 
a genuine friendship, however, for some of the stand- 
ard pieces, which are familiar to all and dear to many, 
she cannot willingly cast them aside. 

The Introduction is merely suggestive of different 
styles found in the Reader. 

The Selections marked for Expression are rather a 
summary of principles noted and illustrated in detail 
in the M Manual," and suggest the plan of studying 
each piece before reading, with special regard to one 
or more of the principles necessary to a correct and 
impressive rendering. 

The compiler cannot but wish for the Reading 
Selections the same cordial reception which has 
greeted the Manual. 

Philadelphia, August ist, 1878. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Introduction xi 

SELECTIONS IN PROSE. 

American Patriotism T. M. Eddy. 218 

Apostrophe to Water Paul Denton. 56 

Art of Being Happy Beecher. 61 

A' Young Lady's Meditations in Church .... 332 
Bennie and Blossom .... "N. Y. Observer." 144 
Black Horse and his Rider . . Charles Sheppard. 131 

Books W. E. Channing. 308 

Bureau-Drawer J. M. Bailey. 355 

Caesar's Pause upon the Rubicon . . J. S. Knowles. 92 
Charity Dinner ..... Litchfield Mosely. 255 

Columbus at Barcelona . . ... . Irving. 311 

Culture of the English Language . . Henry Reed. 307 
Culture, the Result of Labor . . William Wirt. 292 

Easter . . . . . . . «N. Y Tribune." 185 

Enthusiasm of the Huntress . . Dion Boucicault. 389 

Execution of Joan of Arc . . • . . De Quincey. 377 
Fall of the Pemberton Mill . . Elizabeth S. Phelps. 223 

Forest Leaves "Boston Transcript." 127 

French Cook . . . 210 

"Good-Night, Papa" . . . "American Messenger." 157 
Good Reading the Greatest Accomplishment John S. Hart. 267 
Grandfather's Clock . . . Rev. T. De Witt Talmage. 367 
Influence of the Character of Washington . Webster. 75 
Irishwoman's Letter .... Judy O'Halligan. 387 

John Maynard J. B. Gough. 95 

Last Inaugural of Lincoln 163 

Mark Twain on the Weather . . S. L. Clemens. 347 

"Mayflower" and the Pilgrims . . . E. Everett. 193 

Monster Cannon Victor Hugo. 150 

I * v 



VI CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Charles D. Warner. 334 

Dickens. 400 

Mrs. Jameson. 85 

Victor Hugo. 33 

Orville Dewey. 180 

Elihu Burritt. 108 

Wm. M. Evarts. 337 



Moral Qualities of Vegetables . 
Mr. Bumble and Mrs. Corney 

Mrs. Siddons 

Nineteenth Century 
Nobility of Labor 
One Niche the Highest 
Our Country To-Day . 

Pompeii "Chambers' Miscellany" 275 

Queen of France and the Spirit of Chivalry . E. Burke. 222 
Relief of Lucknow .... . . . 50 

Rip Van Winkle . Irving. 40 

Scene from the Merchant of Venice . Shakespeare. 140 

Science and the Bible .... Rev. E. G. Brooks. 321 

Train to Mauro S. A. Frost. 293 

Want of Confidence . 365 

Womanhood and Shakespeare . . * . Wallace Bruce. 385 

Wreck ■. Dickens. 97 

Wreck of the Huron . . . Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage. 326 
Yosemite Valley Samuel Bowles. 120 

SELECTIONS IN VERSE. 

A Battle-Song of Freedom G. Hamilton. 406 

A National Hymn Holmes. 376 

Advertisement of a Lost Day . Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 251 

America's Thanksgiving Hymn . . . S. J. Hale. 195 

An Appeal to the " Sextant " for Air .... 300 

An Order for a Picture .... Alice Cary. 102 

Apple- Dumplings and George the Third . . Wolcott. 243 

Arnold Winkelried .... James Montgomery. 78 

A Woman's Conclusions . . . ' . . Phoebe Cary. 253 

Ballad of Babie Bell T. B. Aldrich. 360 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic . . Julia Ward Howe. 162 

Battle of Flodden ..... William E. Aytoun. 175 

Black Regiment . . . . . G. H. Boker. 308 

Builders Longfellow. 233 

Centennial Hymn Whittier. 407 

Charcoal Man J. T. Trowbridge. 106 

Chicago Whittier. 288 

Children Dickens. 159 

Church of Brou Matthew Arnold. 68 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

Coliseum by Moonlight . . . . . . Byron. 189 

Coral Grove . y. G. Percival. 39 

Curfew-Bell 202 

Daniel Gray . • y. G. Holland. 398 

Death of Marmion Scott. 206 

Death of the Flowers Bryant. 241 

Djinns Victor Hugo. 46 

Drummer-Boy . . • 302 

Dying Christian to his Soul . . . . Pope. 188 

Earl Borthorick's Decree . . . . . . .171 

Empty Nest yean Ingelow. 384 

Found Dead . . . . . . Albert Leighton. 316 

Goody Blake and Harry Gill . . . Wordsworth. 262 
Grandmother Tenterden .... Bret Harte. 244 

Gray Forest Eagle A. B. Street. 279 

Grenadiers . . * Heine. 57 

Growing Old Gracefully . . From "Christian Globe." 320 

Guilty or Not Guilty 236 

Hesperus . 374 

Home and Country y. Montgomery. 93 

Horatius at the Bridge . . ..■>.-■-. . Macaulay. 393 

Horseback Ride . . .'".'". . Grace Greenwood. 148 
How the Church of St. Michael's was Saved . . .81 

How 's My Boy ? Sydney Dobell. 44 

Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni at Sunrise . S. T. Coleridge. 341 

Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith. 239 

Inchcape Rock Robert Southey. 229 

I was with Grant Bret Harte. 305 

Jessie Brown . Whittier. 53 

John Burns of Gettysburg .... Bret Harte. 350 
King Lear Dividing his Kingdom . . . Shakespeare. 182 

Last Hymn Marianne Famingham. 345 

Leak in the Dike ...... Phoebe Cary. 165 

Life-Boat . 287 

Little Foxes Mrs. Mary Cram. 328 

Long Ago 405 

Lore-lei Heine. 88 

Loss of the Royal George Cowper. 363 

Mabel Martin . . . . . . . . Whittier. 134 

Maiden Martyr . . 283 

Main-Truck, or a Leap for Life . . . G. P. Morris. 112 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Mother and Poet .... Elizabeth B. Browning. 268 

My Country Scott. 94 

Niagara . . . . . . Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 232 

Nobody's Child 60 

"Not to Myself Alone" 330 

November Thomas Hood. 246 

Oh! why should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? . . 89 

On Mercy • . Shakespeare. 193 

Our Folks . Ethel Lynn. 128 

Painter of Seville Susan Wilson. 114 

Palmetto and the Pine . . . Mrs. Virginia L. French. 317 
Parson Avery's Swan Song . . . . . Whittier. 215 

Paul Revere' s Ride Longfellow. 63 

Petrified Fern 273 

Power of Music Shakespeare. 190 

Pro Patria ." . T. B. Aldrich. 304 

Rain in Summer Longfellow. 36 

Return of the Hillside Legion . . . Ethel Lynn. 339 
Ride from Ghent to Aix . . . Robert Browning. 72 

"Rock of Ages" 290 

Romeo's Banishment Shakespeare. 358 

Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful 354 

Sea Barry Cornwall. 191 

Some Mother's Child .... Francis L. Keeler. 59 

Summer Lowell. 247 

Talleyrand's Wife . . 212 

Three Bells Whittier. 235 

Tom's Come Home J. T. Trowbridge. 197 

To the Dandelion Lowell. 125 

True Nobility Alice Cary. 343 

Two Little Pairs of Boots 272 

Victim Tennyson. 323 

Voice of the Grass Sarah Roberts. 77 

Winter Lowell. 249 

Woolen Doll George W. Hows. 380 

Young Gray-Head .... Caroline Southey. 369 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Aldrich, T. B., 304, 360. 

" American Messenger," 157. 

Anonymous, 50, 60, 81, 89, 163, 
171, 202, 210, 212, 236, 272, 273, 
283, 287, 290, 300, 302, 330, 332, 

354, 365, 374, 405- 
Arnold, M., 68. 
Aytoun, W. E., 175. 
Bailey, J. M. (The "Danbury 

News" Man), 355. 
Beecher, H. W., 61. 
Boker, G. H., 308. 
" Boston Transcript," 127. 
Boucicault, D., 389. 
Bowles, S., 120. 
Brooks, Rev. E. G., 321. 
Browning, R., 72. 
Browning, Mrs. E. B., 268. 
Bruce, W., 385. 
Bryant, W. C, 241. 
Burke, E., 222. 
Burritt, E., 108. 
Byron, 189. 
Cary, Alice, 102, 343. 
Cary, Phcebe, 165, 253. 
" Chambers' Miscellany," 275. 
Channing, W. E., 308. 



"Christian Globe," 320. 
Clemens, S. L., 347. 
Coleridge, S. T., 341. 
Cornwall, B., 191. 
Cowper, W., 363. 
Cram, Mrs. M., 328. 
Denton, P., 56. 
Dewey, O., 180. 
Dickens, C, 97, 159, 400. 
Dobell, S., 44. 
Eddy, T. M., 218. 
Evarts, W. M., 337. 
Everett, E., 193. 
Farningham, Marianne, 345. 
French, Mrs. V. L., 317. 
Frost, S. A., 293. 
Gough, J. B., 95. 
Greenwood, Grace, 148. 
Hale, S. J., 195. 
Hamilton, G., 406. 
Hart, J. S., 267. 
Harte, Bret, 244, 305, 350. 
Heine, 57, 88. 
Holland, J. G., 398. 
Holmes, O. W., 376. 
Hood, T., 246. 
Howe, J. W., 162. 



. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Hows, G. W., 380. 
Hugo, V., 33, 46, 150. 
Ingelow, Jean, 384. 
Irving, W., 40, 311. 
Jameson, Mrs., 85. 
Keeler, F. L., 59. 
Knowles, J. S., 92. 
Leighton, A., 316. 
Longfellow, H. W., 36, 63, 233. 
Lowell, J. R., 125, 247, 249. 
Lynn, Ethel, 128, 339. 
Macaulay, T. B., 393. 
Montgomery, J., 78, 93. 
Morris, G. P., 112. 
Mosely, L., 255. 
" New York Observer," 144. 
"New York Tribune," 185. 
O'Halligan, Judy, 387. 
Percival, J. G., 39. 
Phelps, Elizabeth S., 223. 
Pope, A., 188. 
Quincey, T. De, 377. 



Reed, H., 307. 
Roberts, Sarah, 77. 
Scott, Sir W., 94, 206. 
Shakespeare, 140, 182, 190, 193, 

358. 
Sheppard, C, 131. 
Sigourney, Mrs. L. PL, 232, 251. 
Smith, H., 239. 
Southey, Caroline, 369. 
Southey, R., 229. 
Street, A. B., 279. 
Talmage, T. De Witt, 326, 367. 
Tennyson, A., 323. 
Trowbridge, J. T., 106, 197. 
Warner, C. D., 334. 
Webster, D., 75. 
WhittierJ. G., 53, 134,215,235, 

288, 407. 
Wilson, Susan, 114. 
Wirt, W., 29E. 

WOLCOT, 243. 

Wordsworth, W„ 262. 






INTRODUCTION. 



THE following selections illustrate the principal varieties of 
style found throughout the Reader. 

The language of prose being less imaginative than poetry, 
demands less variety of tone. The thought-analysis with the 
application of principles, which serve to convey the meaning to 
the understanding, is the chief end to be kept in view. 

As, however, no thought can arise in the mind without a cer- 
tain degree of emotion, it is important that the tone of voice be 
so adapted to the sentiment as to dispel the mechanical and 
monotonous utterance which sometimes pervades the reading of 
prose. 

Familiar talk, dramatic selection, simple narrative, and de- 
scriptive extracts, serve to arouse interest and give ease and 
naturalness to the tone. 

Let the pupil acquire a correct tone through a comprehension 
of the thought and feeling, and a knowledge of principles which 
apply to the expression, rather than by mere imitation. 

The examples marked for the Rhetorical Pause, Inflections, 
and Emphasis, together with selection illustrating Expressive 
Tone in Emotional Reading, are suggestive of the method of 
study and practice of other selections. For single examples of 
application of principles, see " Manual." 

COLLOQUIAL STYLE. 



LIGHT CONVERSATION WITH A HEAVY MAN. 

"Charlotte, my dear, there is a ring at the hall-bell," said 
Mrs. Shawford, the morning after a ball. "Who can it be? — 
Perhaps the Sydenhams — no ! it is Henry Waring. — What shall 
we do ? He is so very heavy, and is always calling." 

(The servant amiounced Mr. Henry Waring.") 



Xll INTRODUCTION. 

"How do you do?" inquired Mrs. Shawford. "I hope Mrs. 
Waring and Eliza are quite well." 

" Quite well, I thank you." 

" I hope they are not fatigued. It was so very kind of Mrs. 
Waring to stay so late. Eliza looked exceedingly well : I think 
she has quite recovered." 

"Yes." 

" Been shooting to-day ? " 

"No." 

" Pray, is it true, Mr. Henry Waring," inquired Charlotte, 
" that Dewhurst Hall is taken ? " 

" I don't know." 

"Very great thing for the neighborhood, if it be." 

"Yes." — [A pause.) "Beautiful weather," remarked Mr. 
Henry Waring. 

" Very fine, indeed,'' agreed Mrs. Shawford. " When do your 
•family go to town ? " 

" Next week." 

" I hope we shall induce papa to take us soon," said Charlotte ; 
" I want to hear Paganini." 

"Yes." 

" Have you heard him ? " 

"No." 

" He must be very wonderful." 

"Yes." 

" You are fond of music, I believe ?" 

" Pretty well." — [Pause the second.) 

"The Dean ages, I think," observed Mrs. Shawford, with a 
sigh. 

"I think he does." 

" I suppose William Rushton will soon return," observed Miss 
Charlotte Shawford. 

" I suppose he will," replied Mr. Henry Waring. — {Pause the 
third.) 

" Pray, is there any talk of Donnington balls this year?" 

" I don't know." 

"They were very pleasant." 

"Yes, very." — (Pause the fourth.) 

"Have you heard anything of your cousin?" inquired Mrs. 
Shawford. 






INTRODUCTION. Xlll 

" Believe they had a letter the other day." 

" I hope he is quite well ? " 

" Yes, quite well." 

" I suppose the important day will soon arrive now ? " 

•" I suppose it will." — {Pause the fifth.) 

"Will you take some luncheon, Mr. Waring? — It is in the 
dining-room." 

" Thank you, — I have lunched." 

" How does John like Oxford ? " 

" Oh ! I don't know : — pretty well." 

" Great change ! " 

" Yes." — {Pause the sixth.) 

" Sure you will not take any luncheon ?" 

" No, thank you. Good-morning, Mrs. Shawford : Good- 
morning, Miss Shawford/' 

" Good-morning. Pray remember us most kindly at home." 

" Yes, — Good-morning ; " and he retired. 

"Very heavy man is Mr. Henry Waring," observed Mrs. 
Shawford. 

"Shocking! " said Charlotte. 



Earnest Conversation with Vivid Narrative. 

THE MISSING SHIP. 

It was long before the cable stretched across the ocean, when 
the steamers did not make such rapid runs from continent to 
continent, that the ship Atlantic was missing. 

She had been due in New York for some days, and the people 
began to despair. 

" The Atlantic has not been heard from yet ! " 
" What news from the Atlantic on Exchange ? " 
"None." Telegraph despatches came in from all quarters. 
"Any news from the Atlantic?"'' And the word thrilled along 
the wires to the hearts of those who had no friends on board, 
"No." 

Day after day passed, and people began to be excited, when 
the booming of the guns told that a ship was coming up the 
Narrows. People went out upon the Battery and Castle Garden 
with their spy-glasses ; but it was a British ship, the Union Jack 

2 



XIV INTRODUCTION. 

was flying ; they watched her come to her moorings, and their 
hearts sank within them. 

" Any news from the Atlantic ? " 

" Has not the Atlantic arrived ? " 

" No ! She sailed fifteen days before we did, and we have heard 
nothing from her ; " and the people said, " there is no use hoping 
against hope, she has made her last port." 

Day after day passed, and those who had friends on board 
began to make up their mourning. 

Day after day passed, and the captain's wife was so ill that the 
doctor said she would die, if suspense were not removed. 

Day after day passed, and men looked at one another and 
said, " Ah, it is a sad thing about the Atlantic ? " 

At length one bright and beautiful morning the gun boomed 
across the bay, and a ship was seen coming into port. 

Down went the people to the Battery and Castle Garden. It 
was a British ship again, and their hearts seemed to die within 
them. But up she came, making a ridge of white foam before 
her, and you could hear a heavy sigh from that crowd, as if it 
were the last hope dying out. Men looked at one another 
blankly ; by and by some one cried out, " She has passed her 
moorings, she is steaming up the river ?" 

Then they wiped away the dimness of grief and watched the 
vessel. Round she came most gallantly, and as she passed the 
immense crowds on the wharves and at Castle Garden, the crew 
hoisted flags from trucks to mainchains. An officer leaped upon 
the paddle-box, put his trumpet to his lips, and cried out, " The 
Atlantic is safe. She has put into port for repairs ! " 

Then such a shout ! Oh, how they shouted ! 

Shout! shout ! shout ! " The Atlantic is safe ! " Bands of 
music paraded the streets, telegraph wires worked all night long, 
" The Atlantic is safe," bringing joy to millions of hearts ; and 
yet not one in a hundred thousand of those who rejoiced had a 
friend or relative on board that steamer. 

It was sympathy with the sorrows of others, with whom they 
had no tie in common, save that which God created when He 
made of one blood all the nations of the earth, and permitted us, 
as brethren, to call Him the common Father of us all. 

J. B. Gough. 






INTRODUCTION. XV 

SIMPLE NARRATIVE STYLE. 



A STORY OF THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

WRITTEN FOR J. G. WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
" I was once a Barefoot Boy." 

On Haverhill's pleasant hills there played, 

Some sixty years ago, 
In turned-up trowsers, tattered hat, 

The " Barefoot Boy " we know. 

He roamed his berry-fields content; 

But while from bush and brier 
The nimble feet got many a scratch, 
His wit, beneath its homely thatch, 

Aspired to something higher. 

Over his dog-eared spelling-book, 

Or school-boy's composition, 
Puzzling his head with some hard sum, 
Going for nuts, or gathering gum, 

He cherished his ambition. 

He found the turtles'-eggs, and watched 

To see the warm sun hatch 'em ; 
Hunted with sling, or bow and arrow, 
Or salt to trap the unwary sparrow, 
Caught fish, or tried to catch 'em. 

But more and more to rise, to soar — 

This hope his bosom fired, — 
•He shot his arrow, sailed his kite, 
Let out the string and watched its flight, 

And smiled while he aspired. 

" Now I 've a plan — I know we can ! " 

He said to Matt — another 
Small shaver of the barefoot sort ; 
His name was Matthew — Matt, for short, 

Our barefoot's younger brother. 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

"What! fly?" says Matt. "Well, not just that, 
John thought ; " for we can't fly ; 

But we can go right up," says he ; 

" Oh, higher than the highest tree ! 
Away up in the sky ! " 

"Oh, do," says Matt; "I'll hold thy hat, 

And watch while thee is gone." 
For these were Quaker lads, and lisped 
Each in his pretty Quaker speech. 
"No, that won't do," says John, 

" For thee must help ; then we can float 

As light as any feather. 
We both can lift; now don't thee see? 
If thee lift me while I lift thee, 

We shall go up together ! " 

An autumn evening, early dusk, 

A few stars faintly twinkled ; 
The crickets chirped ; the chores were done ; 
'Twas just the time to have seen fun 

Before the tea-bell tinkled. 

They spat upon their hands and clinched, 

Firm under hold and upper; 
" Don't lift too hard, or lift too far," 
Says Matt; " or we may hit a star, 

And not get back to supper ! '* 

" Oh, no,'* says John ; " we '11 only lift 

A few rods up, that 's all, 
To see the river and the town. 
Now don't let go till we come down, 

Or we shall catch a fall ! 

" Hold fast to me, now : one, two, three ! 

And up we go." They jerk, 
They pull and strain, but all in vain ! 
A bright idea, and yet, 'twas plain, 

It somehow would n't work. 



INTRODUCTION. XV11 

John gave it up ; ah, many a John 

Has tried and failed as he did. 
'Twas a shrewd notion, none the less, 
And still, in spite of ill success, 

It somehow has succeeded. 

Kind nature smiled on that wise child, 

Nor could her love deny him 
The large fulfilment of his plan, 
Since he who lifts his brother man 

In turn is lifted by him. 

He reached the starry heights of peace 

Before his head was hoary ; 
And now, at threescore years and ten, 
The blessings of his fellow-men 

Waft him a crown of glory. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 

DESCRIPTIVE STYLE. 



VIEW FROM MOUNT TYNDALL, CALIFORNIA. 

The serene sky is grave with nocturnal darkness. The earth 
blinds you with its light. That fair contrast we love in lower 
lands between bright heavens and dark cool earth here reverses 
itself with terrible energy. 

You look up into an infinite vault, unveiled by clouds, empty 
and dark, from which no brightness seems to ray, an expanse 
with no graded perspective, no tremble, no vapory mobility, only 
the vast yawning of hollow space. 

There is no sentiment of beauty in the whole scene ; no sug- 
gestion, however far remote, of sheltered landscape ; not even 
the air of virgin hospitality that greets us explorers in so many 
uninhabited spots, which, by their fertility and loveliness of 
grove or meadow, seem to offer man a home, or us nomads a 
pleasant camping-ground. Silence and desolation are the themes 
which nature has wrought out under this eternally serious sky. 

A faint suggestion of life clings about the middle altitudes of 
the eastern slope, where black companies of pine, stunted from 
2* B 



XV111 INTRODUCTION. 

breathing the hot desert air, group themselves just beneath the 
bottom of perpetual snow, or grow in patches of cloudy darkness 
over the moraines, those piles of wreck crowded from their path- 
way by glaciers long dead. There is something pathetic in the 
very emptiness of thes® old glacier valleys, these imperishable 
tracks of unseen engines. One's eye ranges up their broad, open 
channel to the shrunken white fields surrounding hollow amphi- 
theatres which were once crowded with deep burdens of snow, 
— the birthplace of rivers of ice now wholly melted; the dry, 
clear heavens overhead blank of any promise of ever rebuild- 
ing them. I have never seen Nature when .she seemed so little 
"Mother Nature" as in this place of rocks and snow, echoes 
and emptiness. It impresses me as the ruins of some by-gone 
geological period, and no part of the present order, — like a 
specimen of chaos which has defied the finishing hand of Time. 
The one overmastering feeling is desolation, desolation ! 

Next to this, and more pleasing to notice, is the interest and 
richness of the granite forms ; for the whole region, from plain 
to plain, is built of this dense solid rock, and is sculptured under 
the chisel of cold in shapes of great variety, yet all having a 
common spirit, which is purely Gothic. 

In the much discussed origin of this order of building, I never 
remember to have seen, though it can hardly have escaped men- 
tion, any suggestion of the possibility of the Gothic having been 
inspired by granite forms. 

Yet, as I sat on Mount Tyndall, the whole mountains shaped 
themselves like the ruins of cathedrals, — sharp roof-ridges, 
pinnacled and statued ; buttresses more spired and ornamented 
than Milan's ; receding doorways with pointed arches carved 
into blank facades of granite, — doors never to be opened, — 
innumerable jutting points with here and there a single cruciform 
peak, its frozen roof and granite spires so strikingly Gothic that 
I cannot doubt the Alps furnished the models for early cathedrals 
of that order. 

I thoroughly enjoyed the silence, which, gratefully contrasting 
with the surrounding tumult of form, conveyed to me a new 
sentiment. I have lain and listened through the heavy calm of 
a tropical voyage, hour after hour, longing for a sound ; and in 
desert nights the dead stillness has many a time awakened me 
from sleep. For moments, too, in my forest life, the groves made 



INTRODUCTION. XIX 

absolutely no breath of movement ; but there is around these 
summits the soundlessness of a vacuum. The sea stillness is 
that of sleep ; the desert, of death ; this silence is like the wave- 
less calm of space. — Clarence King. 



Vivid and Pathetic Description. 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

Her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 
That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flow did blow 

The smoke now west, now south. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, — 

Had sailed the Spanish main, — 
" I pray thee put into yonder port, 

For I fear the hurricane — 

" Last night the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see." 
But the skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

Down came the storm and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast, 
He cut a rope from a broken spar 

And bound her to the mast. 

" Oh, father ! I hear the church-bells ring, 

Oh, say! what may it be?" 
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast," 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" Oh, father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh, say ! what may it be ?" 
" Some ship in distress that cannot live 

In such an angry sea." 

" Oh, father ! I see a gleaming light ; 

Oh, say! what may it be?" 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm all stiff and stark, 
With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow, 
On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave 

On the Lake of Galilee. 



INTRODUCTION. XXI 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 
Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept 
Toward the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land, 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from the deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides 

Like the horns of an argry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass she stove — and sank: 

" Ho ! ho! " the breakers roared. 

At daybreak on a bleak sea beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow; 
Christ save us all from a death like this. 

On the reef of Norman's Woe. — Longfellow. 



XX11 INTRODUCTION, 



DIDACTIC STYLE. 



WORK. 
(From Past and Present!) 

" Laborare est Orare— Work is Worship." Older than all 
preached Gospels was this unpreached, inarticulate, but ineradi- 
cable, forever-enduring Gospel; work and therein have well- 
being. Man, Son of Earth and of Heaven, lies there not, in the 
innermost heart of thee, a spirit of active method, a Force for 
Work ; — and burns like a painfully smouldering fire, giving thee 
no rest till thou unfold it, till thou write it down in beneficent 
Facts around thee ! What is unmethodic waste, thou shalt make 
methodic, regulated, arable — obedient and productive to thee. 
Wheresoever thou findest Disorder, there is thy eternal enemy ; 
attack him swiftly, subdue him ; make order of him, the subject, 
not of Chaos, but of Intelligence, Divinity, and Thee ! The thistle 
that grows in thy path, dig it out, that a blade of useful grass, a 
drop of nourishing milk, may grow there instead. 

But above all, where thou findest Ignorance, Stupidity, Brute- 
mindedness, attack it, I say : smite it wisely, unweariedly, and 
rest not while thou livest, and it lives. 

" Work while it is called to-day, for the night cometh wherein 
no man can work." 

All true work is sacred : in all true work, were it but true hand- 
labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the 
earth, has its summit in heaven. 

Sweat of the brow ; and up from that to sweat of the brain, 
sweat of the heart ; which includes all Kepler calculations, Newton 
meditations, all sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroisms, 
martyrdoms — up to that "Agony of bloody sweat," which all 
men have called divine ! 

Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil ? Complain 
not. Look up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen 
there in God's eternity; surviving there, they alone surviving 
sacred Band of the Immortals, celestial body-guard of the Em- 
pire of mankind. To thee Heaven, though severe, is not un- 
kind ; Heaven is kind — as a noble mother; as that Spartan 
mother, saying while she gave her son his shield, " With it, my 



INTRODUCTION. XX111 

son, or upon it!" Thou too shalt return Home, in honor to 
thy far distant Home, in honor; doubt it not — if in the battle 
thou keep thy shield ! Complain not ; the very Spartans did not 
complain. — Thomas Carlyle. 



ORATORICAL STYLE. 



WHAT ARE GREAT MEN? 

FROM ADDRESS DELIVERED AT BOSTON, 4TH OF JULY, 1 876. 

Who and what are great men? "Woe to the country," 
said Metternich to our own Ticknor, forty years ago, "whose 
condition and institutions no longer produce great men to 
manage its affairs." 

But who and what are great men ? " And now stand forth," 
says an eminent Swiss historian, who had completed a survey of 
the whole history of mankind, at the very moment when, as he says, 
" a blaze of freedom is just bursting forth beyond the ocean," — 
" And now stand forth, ye gigantic forms, shades of the first 
chieftains, and sons of gods, who glimmer among the rocky halls 
and mountain fortresses of the ancient world; and you, con- 
querors of the world, from Babylon and from Macedonia ; ye 
dynasties of Caesars, Huns, Arabs, Moguls, and Tartars ; ye 
Commanders of the Faithful on the Tigris, and Commanders 
of the Faithful on the Tiber ; you hoary counsellors of kings and 
peers of sovereigns ; warriors on the car of triumph, covered 
with scars and crowned with laurels ; ye long rows of Consuls 
and Dictators, famed for your lofty minds, your unshaken con- 
stancy, your ungovernable spirit, stand forth, and let us survey, 
for awhile, your assembly, like a council of the gods ! What 
were ye ? The first among the mortals ? Seldom can you claim 
that title ! The best of men ? Still fewer of you have deserved 
that praise ! Were ye the compellers, the instigators of the 
human race, the prime movers of all their works ? Rather 
let us say that you were the instruments, that you were the 
wheels, by whose means the Invisible Being has conducted the 
incomprehensible fabric of universal government across the 
ocean of time." 



XXIV INTRODUCTION. 

Instruments and wheels of the Invisible Governor of the Uni- 
verse ! This is indeed all which the greatest of men ever have 
been, or ever can be. No flatterers of courtiers ; no adulation 
of the multitude ; no audacity of self-reliance ; no intoxications 
of success ; no evolutions or developments of science can make 
more or other of them. This is the " sea-mark of their utmost 
sail " — the goal of their furthest run — the very round and top 
of their highest soaring. 

Oh, if there could be, to-day, a deeper and more pervading 
impression of this great truth throughout our land, and a more 
prevailing conformity of our thoughts, and words, and acts to 
the lessons which it involves ; if we could lift ourselves to a 
loftier sense of our relations to the Invisible ; if, in surveying 
our past history, we could catch larger and more exalted views 
of our destinies and our responsibilities ; if we could realize that 
the want of good men may be a heavier woe to a land than any 
want of what the world calls great men, our Centennial year 
would not only be signalized by splendid ceremonials, and mag- 
nificent commemorations, and gorgeous expositions, but it would 
go far towards fulfilling something of the grandeur of that " ac- 
ceptable year," which was announced by higher than human 
lips, and would be the auspicious promise and pledge of a glo- 
rious second century of Independence and Freedom for our 
country ! 

The patriot voice which cried from the balcony of yonder old 
State-House, when the Declaration had been originally pro- 
claimed, " stability and perpetuity to American Independence," 
did not fail to add, " God save our American States." I would 
prolong that ancestral prayer. There is, there can be, no inde- 
pendence of God ; in Him as a nation, no less than in Him as 
individuals, "we live and move and have our being!" God 
save our American States. — Robert C. Winthrop. 



THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow ; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 






INTRODUCTION. XXV 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

And redder yet those fires shall glow 
On Linden's hills of blood-stained snow; 
And darker yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn; but scarce yon lurid sun 
Can pierce the war clouds, rolling dun. 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
Wave Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry S 

Ah ! few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Campbell. 

Questions for Thought-Analysis of the above Poem. 

What kind of poetry is this ? Give some account of the author. Did he witness 
the battle here described? In what year and season was it fought? Between what 
nations or people? Where is Hohenlinden? Meaning of the word? Meaning of the 
phrase "sun was low"? Describe the Iser. How pronounced? Derivation of 

3 



XXVI INTRODUCTION. 

untrodden? Principal parts of verb lay? Explain the line " and dark as winter was 
the flow." 

Was the battle fought by day or night ? What commanded the fires of death ? 
Meaning of phrase " fires of death" ? 

What is vividly pictured in the third and fourth stanzas? What kind of utterance 
would express the sense — slow or spirited ? In fifth stanza what " fires " are meant ? 
Meaning of third and fourth lines ? 

Define lurid. Dun. Who were the Franks ? the Huns ? Meaning of sulphurous ? 
canopy? How express the bold command in seventh stanza? Where is Munich? 
Meaning of chivalry as applied in fourth line? How does the sentiment change in 
eighth stanza? Meaning of first line ? 



Marked for Rhetorical Pauses. 

SONGS IN THE NIGHT. 

The world | hath its night. | It seemeth necessary | that it 
should have one. | The sun | shineth | by day, and men | go 
forth | to their labors ; | but they grow weary, | and nightfall | 
cometh on, | like a sweet boon | from heaven. | The darkness [ 
draweth the curtains, | and shutteth out the light, | which might 
prevent our eyes | from slumber ; | while the sweet, j calm still- 
ness | of the night | permits us | to rest | upon the lap | of ease, 
and there forget awhile our cares, | until the morning sun | ap- 
peareth, | and an angel | puts his hand | upon the curtain, and 
undraws it | once again, | touches our eyelids, | and bids us 
rise, | and proceed | to the labors J of the day. | Night | is one | 
of the greatest blessings | that men enjoy ; | we have many rea- 
sons | to thank God | for it. | Yet night | is to many | a gloomy 
season. | There is "the pestilence | that walketh J in dark- 
ness;" | there is " the terror | by night; " J there is the dread of 
robbers | and of fell disease, | with all those fears | that the timor- 
ous know, | when the*y have no light | wherewith they can dis- 
cern objects. | It is then | they fancy { that spiritual creatures j 
walk the earth ; though, if they knew rightly, j they would find 
it | to be true, | that " Millions of spiritual beings | walk this 
earth, | unseen, | both when we sleep | and when we wake," | 
and that | at all times | they are round about us | — not more by 
night | than by day. | Night | is the season | of terror | and 
alarm | to most men. Yet | even night | hath its songs. | Have 
you never stood | by the sea-side | at night, | and heard the peb- 
bles | sing, | and the waves | chant God's glories ? | Or | have 
you never risen | from your couch, | and thrown up the window | 



INTRODUCTION. XXV11 

of your chamber, | and listened there ? J Listened | to what ? | 
Silence — save now and then | a murmuring sound, | which 
seems | sweet music | then. | And have you not fancied | you 
heard the harp | of God | playing | in heaven ?| Did you not 
conceive, | that yon stars, | that those eyes | of God, | looking 
down | on you, | were also | mouths | of song — that every star | 
was singing God's glory, | singing, | as it shone, | of its mighty 
Maker, | and his lawful, j well-deserved praise ? | Night | hath 
its songs. | We need not much poetry [ in our spirit, | to catch 
the song | of night, | and hear the spheres | as they chant 
praises | which are loud | to the heart, j though they be silent | 
to the ear — the praises | of the mighty God, | who bears up the 
unpillared arch | of heaven, | and moves the stars | in their 
courses. — C. H. Spurgeon. 

Marked for Inflections and Emphasis. 

UNIVERSAL DECAY. 

We receive such repeated intimations of decay in the world 

through which we are passing; decline and change and loss 

follow decline and change and loss in such rapid succession, that 

/■ 
we can almost catch the sound of universal wasting, and hear 

/ . \ 

the work of desolatio?i going on busily around us. The mountain 

\ 
falling cometh to naught, and the rock is removed out of his 

\ \ 

place. The waters wear the stones, the things which grow out 

'/ 
of the dust of the earth are washed away, and the hope of man 

\ / 

is destroyed. Conscious of our own instability '.we look about for 

\ \ 

something to rest on ; but we look in vain. The heavens and 

> , \ 

the earth had a beginning, and they will have an end. The face 

\ / \ 

of the world is changing, daily and hourly. All animated things 

y \ \ \ 

grow old and die. The rocks crumble, the trees fall, the leaves 

/ \ / 

fade, and the grass withers. The clouds are flying, and the 

waters are flowing away from us. 

The firmest works of man, too, are gradually giving way ; the 



XXV111 INTRODUCTION. 



ivy clings to the mouldering tower, the brier hangs out from the 

/ 
shattered window, and the wall-flower springs from the disjointed 

\ 
stones. 

The founders of these perishable works have shared the same 
/ \ / 

fate long ago. If we look back to the days of our ancestors, to 
\ / 

the men as well as the dwellings of former times, they become 

immediately associated in our imaginations, and only make the 

\/\ 
feeling of instability stronger and deeper than before. In the 

/ / 

spacious domes, which once held our fathers, the serpent hisses, 

and the wild bird screams. The halls, which once were crowded 

\ / \ / 

with all that taste and science and labor could procure, — which 

\ /■ 

resounded with melody, and were lighted up with beauty, are 

\ . \ 

buried by their own ruins, mocked by their own desolation. 

\ / \ 

The voice of merriment and of wailing, the steps of the busy 

/ \ . \ 

and the idle have ceased in the deserted courts, and the weeds 

/ \ 

choke the entrances, and the long grass waves upon the hearth- 
stone. 

\ \ \ \ 

The works of art, the forming hand, the tombs, the very ashes 
\ 
they contained, are all gone. 

\ \ 

And when we have gone ourselves, even our memories will not 
/ 
stay behind us long. A few of the near and dear will bear our 

likeness in their bosoms, till they, too, have arrived at the end of 

/ \ 

their journey, and entered the dark dwelling of unconsciousness. 

/ 
In the thoughts of others we shall live only till the last sound 

/ \ 

of the bell, which informs them of our departure, has ceased to 
/ . \ \ 

vibrate in their ears. A stone, perhaps, may tell some wanderer 

'/■ ' / / \ 

where we lie, when we ca77ie here, and when we went away ; but 

\ \ 

even that will soon refuse to bear us record: "nine's effacing 

fingers " will be busy on its surface, and at length will wear it 






INTRODUCTION. Xxix 

\ . / \ 

smooth ; and then the stone itself will sink or crumble, and the 

./ ■ \ 

wanderer of another age will pass, without a single call upon his 

/ \ 

sympathy, over our unheeded graves. — Greenwood. 



Illustrating Modulation in Emotional Language. (Marked for Ex- 
pressive Tones, also for Inflections, Pauses, and Emphasis.) 

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

High and There was a sound I of revelry | by night, 

And Belgium's capital | had gathered | then | 
/ \ 

Moderate. Her beauty j and her chivalry ; and bright 

/ 
The lamps | shone I o'er fair women and brave 
\ 
men : 
\ \ 

Loud and A thousand hearts I beat happily, and when 

high. Jrir s ^ 

Gentle and Music | arose | with its voluptuous swell, 

slow. \ \ 

Soft eyes | look'd love | to eyes | which spake again ; 
High. And all | went merry | as a marriage bell : 

Soft, low and But Hush ! HARK ! — a deep sound | strikes J like 

quick, aspi- \ 

rated chest a rising £«*/// 

tone. & 

/ 

Loud, high Did ye not hear it ? 

and quick. \ / 

_ , ' No ; 't was but the wind, 

Loud and y v 

Or the car I rattling o'er the stony street ; 
\ \ 

Loud. On with the dance ! let joy \ be unconfined ; 

Quick and ]\f sleep till morn, when Youth I and Pleasure I meet, 

high. * ' y 

To chase the glowing hours [ with flying feet — 

Soft and low. But HARK ! — that heavy sound I breaks in | once 
\ 
more, 

\ \ 

As if the clouds \ its echo \ would repeat; 

3* 



XXX INTRODUCTION. 

Increase force \ \ - \ 

and rate. And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 

Very loud, \ ■ \ \ 

^uick, 4^ Arm! ~~ ARM! — it is,— it is,— the cannon's open- 
rated. \ 

ing roar I 

/ 

Soft, low and Ah ! then and there | was hurrying to and fro, 

quick. / / 

Aspirated. And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

/ 
And cheeks all pale, which j but an hour ago J 
\ . \ 

BlusJid | at the praise | of their own loveliness ; 

Plaintive and And there were sudden parti7igs, such as press 

tremulous. \ / 

The life | from out young hearts, and choking 

sighs | 

Low and slow. Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess | 

\ 
If ever more | should meet those mutual eyes, 

Plaintive, very s mce U pon night \ so sweet, such awfulmorn I could 

slow. > , 

rise ! 

\ \ 

Loud ra^And there was mounting | in hot haste ; the steed, 

quick. \ / 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward | with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming | in the ranks of war: 
FU tL, w And th e ^ thunder, peal on /«*/ | afar ; 

rtKd? Slow. / . \ 

Increase rate. And ;z^«r, the beat of the alarming dru?n J 
Roused up the soldier | ere the morning star ; 
High. While thronged the citizens | with terror dumb, 

. . , Or whispering, I with white.lips, I "The Foe! They 

Aspirated, ex- \ \ 

*6rof. CoME> they CQME , » 

L °hiih aK ^And 7£/z7^| and high | the " Cameron's gathering" 
rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyrfs kills j 



INTRODUCTION. XXXI 

/ \ 

Pure /ahetto Have heard I and heard, too, have her Saxon foes ; 

register. ' 

Moderate in- H° w I m tne noon of night | that pibroch thrills, 
/ \ 

Savage \ d^d shrill/ But with the breath which fills j 

creasing in / \ 

Their mountai7i-pifte, so fill the mountaineers j 

With the fierce native daring | which instils | 

\ 
The stirring memory | of a thousa?id years ; 

Very loud, And Evan's, Donald's fame | rings | in each clans- 

high chest \ 

register. man's ears ! 

/ 

Soft, low and And Ardennes | waves above them I her green leaves, — 

SlOW. ' ° y 

Dewy, wkh nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Plaintive, Grieving, — if aught ina?iimate | e'er grieves, — 

Over the unreturnmg brave, — alas ! 
Very low and Ere eveni7ig I to be trodden | like the grass j 

Which now \ beneath them, but above shall grow, 
Increased In its next verdure, when this fiery mass | 

force and / 

rate. Of. living valor | rolling j on the foe, 

/ 
Soft and very And burning I with high hope, shall moulder \ cold 

low. \ 

and low. 

/ \ 

Full tone. Last noon \ beheld them | full of lusty life, 

s ■ / \ 

/increasing j^st eve | in beaut/s circle \ proudly gay, 

/ \ 

Force The 77iidnight \ brought the sig7ial sotmd \ of strife, 

/ \ / 

Loud. The 77ior7i I the 77iarshallmg in ar77is, — the day | 

\ 
Full chest Battle's 77iag7iifice7itly ster7i array ! 

■ tone. \ / 

Low and slow. The thu7ider-clouds I close der it, which | when rent, 

The earth I is covered thick \ with other clay, 
\ / \ 

Very low Which her ow7i clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
/ \ / \ 

Rider and horse, — frie7id, foe, — in 07ie red I burial 

Very slow. \ 

ble7it. — Byro7i. 






WARREN'S 

READING SELECTIONS. 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 

LET us have faith. No ; let us not allow ourselves 
to be crushed. To despair is to desert. Let us 
look at the future. The future — one does not know 
what tempests separate us from the port ; but the port, 
radiant, though distant, is in view ; the future, let us 
repeat it, is the Republic for all ; let us add, the future 
is peace with all. 

Let us not fall into the vulgar whim, and dishonor 
the century in which we live. 

Erasmus called the sixteenth century the "excre- 
ment of the times," f 'ex temporum ; Bossuetthus charac- 
terizes the seventeenth century : " A time wicked and 
small ;" Rousseau stigmatizes the eighteenth century in 
these terms : " This great rottenness in which we live." 
Posterity has decided against these illustrious minds. 
She has said to Erasmus, "The sixteenth century 
is grand;" she has said to Bossuet, "The seventeenth 
century is grand;" she has said to Rousseau, "The 
eighteenth century is grand." The infamy of these 
centuries must have been real, yet these strong men 

C 33 



34 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

were wrong in complaining. The thinker ought to 
accept with simplicity and calmness the centre in 
which Providence has placed him. 

Whatever may be the shames of the present instant, 
whatever may be the blows by which the shifting 
gear of events may strike us, whatever may be the 
apparent desertion or the momentary lethargy of 
minds, none of us democrats will disown this magnifi- 
cent epoch in which we live, the masculine age of 
humanity. Let us proclaim this aloud, let us pro- 
claim it in our fall and in our overthrow, this century 
is the grandest of centuries ; and do you know why ? 
because it is the sweetest. This century, the immedi- 
ate and the first issue of the French Revolution, freed 
the slave in America, elevated the pariahs in Asia, ex- 
tinguished the funeral-pile in India, and crushed the 
last firebrands at the martyr's stake in Europe ; is civ- 
ilizing Turkey, is causing the gospel to penetrate even 
to the refutation of the Koran ; elevates woman, sub- 
ordinates the right of might to the might of right; 
suppresses piracies, softens suffering, makes the gal- 
leys wholesome, throws the red branding-iron into the 
sewer, condemns the death penalty, takes the ball from 
the foot of the galley-slave, abolishes corporal punish- 
ment, degrades and dishonors war, takes the edge away 
from the Dukes of Alva and the Charles the Ninths, 
tears out the claws of tyrants. 

This century proclaims the sovereignty of the citizen 
and the inviolability of life; it crowns the people and 
consecrates man. In art it has all varieties of genius : 
writers, orators, poets, historians, publicists, philoso- 
phers, painters, statuaries, musicians, majesty, grace, 
power, strength, brilliancy, depth, color, form, style. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 35 



It reinvigorates itself at once in the real and in the 
ideal, and carries in its hand those two thunderbolts — 
the true and the beautiful. 

In science it performs every miracle. It makes salt- 
petre out of cotton, of steam a horse, of the voltaic pile 
a workman, of the electric fluid a messenger, of the 
sun a painter ; it waters itself with subterranean waters 
till it warms itself with central fire ; it opens on the 
two infinities those two windows — the telescope on the 
infinitely great, the microscope on the infinitely little — 
and it finds in the first abyss stars, and in the second 
insects, which prove God to it. It suppresses dura- 
tion, it suppresses space, it suppresses suffering; it 
writes a letter from Paris to London, and it has the 
answer in ten minutes; it amputates a man's thigh 
while the man is singing and smiling. It has only to 
realize — and it is close upon it — a progress which is 
nothing at the side of the other miracles which it has 
already done ; it has only to find the means to propel 
in a mass of air a bubble of air still lighter; it has 
already secured the air-bubble, and it holds it im- 
prisoned ; it has only to find the impelling force, only 
to make the vacuum before the balloon, for example, 
only to burn the air before it, as the rocket would ; 
it has only to resolve in some such way this problem, 
and it will resolve it. And do you know what will 
happen then ? At that very azure, men are mingled in 
the heavens. Until this last progress, see the point to 
which this century has brought civilization. — Victor 
Hugo. 



36 warren's select readings. 

RAIN IN SUMMER. 

HOW beautiful is the rain! 
After the dust and heat, 
In the broad and fiery street, 
In the narrow lane, 
How beautiful is the rain! 

How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs ! 

How it gushes and struggles out 

From the throat of the overflowing spout ! 

Across the window-pane 

It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 

The rain, the welcome rain ! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 

At the twisted brooks; 

He can feel the cool 

Breath of each little pool ; 

His fevered brain 

Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighboring school 

Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 

And commotion ; 

And down the wet streets 

Sail their mimic fleets, 






warren's select readings. 37 

Till the treacherous pool 

Engulfs them in its whirling 

And turbulent ocean. 

In the country on every side, 

Where, far and wide, 

Like a leopard's spotted and tawny hide, 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 

How welcome is the rain! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale 

And the vapors that arise 

From the well-watered and smoking soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil, 

Their large and lustrous eyes 

Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man's spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 
The farmer sees 

His pastures and his fields of grain, 
As they bend their tops 
To the numberless beating drops 
Of the incessant rain. 
He counts it as no sin 
That he sees therein 
Only his own thrift and gain. 
4 






38 warren's select readings. 

These, and far more than these, 

The Poet sees! 

He can behold 

Aquarius old 

Walking the fenceless fields of air, 

And from each ample fold 

Of the clouds about him rolled 

Scattering everywhere 

The showery rain. 

As the farmer scatters his grain, 

He can behold 

Things manifold 

That have not yet been wholly told, 

Have not been wholly sung nor said. 

For his thought, that never stops, 

Follows the water-drops 

Down to the graves of the dead, 

Down through chasms and gulfs profound, 

To the dreary fountain-head 

Of lakes and rivers underground ; 

And sees them, when the rain is done, 

On the bridge of colors seven 

Climbing up once more to heaven, 

Opposite the setting sun. 



Thus the Seer, 

With visions clear, 

Sees forms appear and disappear 

In the perpetual round of strange, 

Mysterious change 

From birth to death, from death to birth, 

From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth ; 



warren's select readings. 39 

Till glimpses more sublime 

Of things, unseen before, 

Unto his wondering eyes reveal 

The Universe as an immeasurable wheel 

Turning forevermore 

In the rapid and rushing river of Time. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



THE CORAL GROVE. 

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, 
Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
That never are wet with falling dew, 
But in bright and changeful beauty shine, 
Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 

And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; 
From coral rocks the sea-plants lift 

Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
The water is calm and still below, 

For the winds and waves are absent there, 
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 

In the motionless fields of upper air; 
There, with its waving blade of green, 

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 

To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter; 
There, with a light and easy motion, 

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea; 
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 

Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; 



40 warren's select readings. 

And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 

Is sporting amid those bovvers of stone, 
And is safe when the wrathful spirit of storms 

Has made the top of the wave his own ; 
And when the ship from his fury flies, 

When the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, 

And the demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 
Then far below in the peaceful sea, 

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, 
Where the waters murmur tranquilly 

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 

J. G. Percival. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



THE appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an 
army of women and children at his heels, soon at- 
tracted the attention of the tavern politicians. 

The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him 
partly aside, inquired " on which side he voted ? " 
Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but 
busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising 
on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether he was 
Federal or Democrat ? " Rip was equally at a loss to 
comprehend the question ; when a knowing, self-im- 
portant old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made 
his way through the crowd, putting them to the right 
and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting 
himself before Van Winkle with one arm akimbo, the 
other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 41 

penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded 
in an austere tone, " What brought him to the elec- 
tion with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 
heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 
village ? " " Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat 
dismayed, " I am quite a poor quiet man, a native 
of the place, and a loyal subject of the king. God 
bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — 
" A tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! 
away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that 
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
but merely came there in search of some of his neigh- 
bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
"Where's Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for 
a little while, when an old man replied in a thin pip- 
ing voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden 
tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell about 
him, but that 's rotten and gone too." 

" Where 's Brom Dutcher ? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of 
the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of 
Stony Point ; others say he was drowned in a squall 
at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he 
never came back again." 
4* 



42 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

"Where 's Von Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's • heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
of matters which he could not understand : war — 
Congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage to ask 
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does 
nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. 
" Oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself as he went up the mountain, apparently as 
lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another 
man. 

In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his 
name. 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end. "I 'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder 
— no — that's somebody else got into my shoes. I 
was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moun- 
tain, and they 've changed my gun, and everything 's 
changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't tell what 's my 
name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 43 

securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with 
some precipitation. At this critical moment, a fresh, 
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a 
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby 
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began 
to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she ; " the old man won't 
hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 
of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, 
my good woman ? " asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name ? " 

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name; 
but it 's twenty years since he went away from home 
with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his 
dog came home without him ; but whether he shot 
himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody 
can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put 
it with a faltering voice : 

" Where 's your mother? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New- 
England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intel- 
ligence. The honest man could contain himself no 
longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
arms. " I am your father ! " cried he. " Young Rip 
Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does 
nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 



44 warren's select readings. 

from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed : 
"Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have 
you been these twenty years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The neigh- 
bors stared when they heard it; some were seen to 
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the 
field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

Washington Irving. 



HOW'S MY BOY? 



HO, sailor of the sea ! 
How's my boy — my boy?" 
" What 's your boy's name, good wife, 
And in what good ship sailed he ? " 

"My boy John — 

He that went to sea — 
What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
My boy 's my boy to me. 

"You come back from sea, 
And not know my John ? 



warren's select readings. 45 

I might as well have asked some landsman, 

Yonder down in the town ; 
There's not an ass in all the parish 

But he knows my John. 

"How's my boy — my boy? 

And unless you let me know, 
I '11 swear you are no sailor, 

Blue jacket or no ! 
Brass buttons or no, sailor, 

Anchor and crown or no ! 
Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton.' " — 

" Speak low, woman, speak low ! " 

"And why should I y speak low, sailor, 

About my own boy John ? 
If I was loud as I am proud, 

I 'd sing him over the town ! 
Why should I speak low, sailor?" — 

" That good ship went dpwn." 

" How 's my boy — my boy ? 
What care I for the ship, sailor, 

I was never aboard her. 
Be she afloat or be she aground, 
Sinking or swimming, I '11 be bound 

Her owners can afford her! 
I say, how 's my John ? " — 
" Every man on board went down, 

Every man aboard her.'.' 

"How's my boy — my boy? 

What care I for the men, sailor? 



46 warren's select readings. 

I'm not their mother — 
How 's my boy — my boy ? 

Tell me of him and no other ! 
How's my boy — my boy?" 

Sydney DobelL 



THE DJINNS. 

TOWN, tower, 
Shore, deep 
Where lower 
Cliffs steep; 
Waves gray, 
When play 
Winds gay; — 
All sleep. 

Hark! a sound, 
Far and slight, 
Breathes around 
On the night: 
High and higher, 
Nigh and nigher, 
Like a fire 
Roaring bright. 

Now on 'tis sweeping 
With rattling beat, 
Like dwarf imp leaping 
In gallop fleet; 
He flies, he prances, 
In frolic fancies. 






warren's select readings. 47 

On wave-crest dances 
With pattering feet. 

Hark, the rising swell, 
With each nearer burst! 
Like the toll of bell 
Of a convent cursed ; 
Like the billowy roar 
On a storm-lashed shore,— * 
Now hushed, now once more 
Maddening to its worst. 

O God ! the deadly sound 
Of the Dj inns' fearful cry ! 
Quick, 'neath the spiral round 
Of the deep staircase fly ! 
See, see our lamplight fade! 
And of the balustrade 
Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
Up to the ceiling high. 

'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm 
Whistling in their tempest flight; 
Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, 
Like a pine flame crackling bright. 
Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd 
Through the heavens rushing loud, 
Like a livid thunder-cloud, 
With its belt of fiery night ! 

Ha! they are on us, close without! 
Shut tight the shelter where we lie* 



48 warren's select readings. 

With hideous din the monster rout, 

Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! 

The loosened rafter overhead 

Trembles and bends like quivering reed; 

Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 

As from its rusty hinge 't would fly ! 

Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek ! 
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed — 
O Heaven ! — descends my lowly roof to seek ; 
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. 
Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn 
From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, 
Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost! 

O Prophet ! if thy hand but now 

Save from these foul and hellish things, 

A pilgrim at thy shrine I '11 bow, 

Laden with pious offerings. 

Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 

Stream on my faithful door in vain, 

Vainly upon my blackened pane 

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! 

They have passed ! — and their wild legion 
Cease to thunder at my door; 
Fleeting through night's rayless region, 
Hither they return no more. 
Clanking chains and sounds of woe 
Fill the forests as they go ; 
And the tall oaks cower low, 
Bent their flaming flight before. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 49 

On ! on ! the storm of wings 
Bears far the fiery fear, 
Till scarce the breeze now brings 
Dim murmurings to the ear; 
Like locusts' humming hail, 
Or thrash of tiny flail 
Plied by the pattering hail 
On some old roof-tree near, 

Fainter now are borne 
Fitful mutterings still; 
As, when Arab horn 
Swells its magic peal, 
Shoreward o'er the deep 
Fairy voices sweep, 
And the infant's sleep 
Golden visions fill. 

Each deadly Djinn, 
Dark child of fright, 
Of death and sin, 
Speeds the wild flight 
Hark, the dull moan, 
Like the deep tone 
Of ocean's groan, 
Afar, by night ! 

More and more 
Fades it now, 
As on shore 
Ripples flow, — 
As the plaint 
Far and faint 
D 



50 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Of a saint 
Murmured low. 

Hark! hist! 
Around 
I list! 

The bounds 
Of space ! 
All trace 
Efface 
Of sound. 
Victor Hugo. Translation of John L. 0' Sullivan. 



RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 

The following account of the relief of Lucknow was written 
by a lady, one of the rescued party : — 

ON every side death stared us in the face; no human 
skill could avert it any longer. We saw the mo- 
ment approach when we must bid farewell to earth, 
yet without feeling that unutterable horror which 
must have been experienced by the unhappy victims 
at Cawnpore. We were resolved rather to die than 
yield, and were fully persuaded that in twenty-four 
hours all would be over. The engineers had said so, 
and all knew the worst. We women strove to en- 
courage each other, and to perform the light duties 
which had been assigned to us, such as conveying 
orders to the batteries and supplying the men with 
provisions, especially cups of coffee, which we pre- 
pared day and night. 



warren's select readings. 51 

I had gone out to try and make myself useful, in 
company with Jessie Brown, the wife of a corporal in 
my husband's regiment. Poor Jessie had been in a 
state of restless excitement all through the siege, and 
had fallen away visibly within the last few days. A 
constant fever consumed her, and her mind wandered 
occasionally, especially that day, when the recollec- 
tions of home seemed powerfully present to her. At 
last, overcome with fatigue, she lay down on the 
ground, wrapped up in her plaid. I sat beside her, 
promising to awaken her when, as she said, "her 
father would return from the ploughing." She fell at 
length into a profound slumber, motionless and ap- 
parently breathless, her head resting in my lap. I 
myself could no longer resist the inclination to sleep, 
in spite of the continual roar of the cannon. Suddenly 
I was aroused by a wild, unearthly scream close to 
my ear; my companion stood upright beside me, her 
arms raised, and her head bent forward in the attitude 
of listening. A look of intense delight broke over 
her countenance ; she grasped my hand, drew me to- 
wards her, and exclaimed, " Dinna ye hear it ? dinna 
ye hear it ? Ay, I 'm no dreamin'; it 's the slogan o' 
the Highlanders ! We 're saved ! We 're saved ! " 
Then, flinging herself on her knees, she thanked God 
with passionate fervor. 

I felt utterly bewildered: my English ears heard 
only the roar of artillery, and I thought my poor 
Jessie was still raving; but she darted to the batteries, 
and I heard her cry incessantly to the men, "Courage! 
courage ! hark to the slogan — to the MacGregor, the 
grandest of them a' ! Here 's help at last ! " To de- 
scribe the effect of these words upon the soldiers would 



52 warren's select readings. 

be impossible. For a moment they ceased firing, and 
every soul listened in intense anxiety. Gradually, 
however, there arose a murmur of bitter disappoint- 
ment, and the wailing of the women who had flocked 
to the spot burst out anew as the colonel shook his 
head. Our dull lowland ears heard nothing but the 
rattle of the musketry. A few moments more of this 
death-like suspense, of this agonizing hope, and Jessie, 
who had sunk on the ground, sprang to her feet, and 
cried, in a voice so clear and piercing that it was heard 
along the whole line, " Will ye no believe it noo ? 
The slogan has ceased indeed, but the Campbells are 
comin' ! D' ye hear, d' ye hear ? " 

At that moment we seemed indeed to hear the voice 
of God in the distance, when the pibroch of the High- 
landers brought us tidings of deliverance, for now 
there was no longer any doubt of the fact. That 
shrill, penetrating, ceaseless sound, which rose above 
all other sounds, could come neither from the advance 
of the enemy nor from the work of the Sappers. No ; 
it was indeed the blast of the Scottish bagpipes, now 
shrill and harsh, as threatening vengeance on the foe, 
then in softer tones, seeming to promise succor to their 
friends in need. 

Never surely was there such a scene as that which 
followed. Not a heart in the residency of Lucknow 
but bowed itself before God. All by one simultaneous 
impulse fell upon their knees, and nothing was heard 
but bursting sobs and the murmured voice of prayer. 
Then all arose, and there rang out from a thousand 
lips a great shout of joy which resounded far and 
wide, and lent new vigor to that blessed pibroch. To 
our cheer of " God save the Queen," they replied by 



warren's select readings. 53 

the well-known strain that moves every Scot to tears, 
"Should auld acquaintance be forgot," etc. After that 
nothing else made any impression on me. I scarcely 
remember what followed. Jessie was presented to 
the general on his entrance into the fort, and at the 
officers' banquet her health was drunk by all present, 
while the pipers marched round the table playing once 
more the familiar air of " Auld Lang Syne." 



JESSIE BROWN. 

PIPES of the misty moorland, 
Voice of the glen and hill, 
The drone of highland torrent, 

The song of lowland rill ; 
Not the braes of broom or heather, 

Nor the mountains dark with rain, 
Nor maiden bower nor border tower, 
Have heard your sweetest strain. 

Dear to the lowland reaper 

And plaided mountaineer, 
To the cottage and the castle, 

The Scottish pipes are dear. 
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch 

O'er mountain loch and glade, 
But the sweetest of all music 

The pipes at Lucknow played. 

Day by day the Indian tiger 
Louder yelled and nearer crept, 

Round and round the jungle serpent 
Near and nearer circles swept. 
5* 



54 warren's select readings. 

" Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, 
Pray to-day ! " the soldier said ; 

" To-morrow death 's between us 

And the wrong and shame we dread." 

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, 

Till their hopes became despair, 
And the sobs of low bewailing 

Filled the pauses of their prayer. 
Then up spake a Scottish maiden, 

With her ear upon the ground, 
"Dinna ye hear it? dinna ye hear it? 

The pipes o' Havelock sound ! " 

Hushed the wounded man his groaning, 

Hushed the wife her little ones; 
Alone they heard the drum roll 

And the roar of Sepoy guns. 
But to sounds of home and childhood, 

The highland ear was true; 
"Dinna ye hear it? 'tis the slogan! 

Will ye no believe it noo ? " 

Like the march of soundless music 

Through the vision of the seer, 
More of feeling than of hearing, 

Of the heart than of the ear, 
She knew the droning pibroch ; 

She knew the Campbell's call. 
" Hark ! hear ye no MacGregor's, 

The grandest o' them all?" 



fa j 



Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, 
And they caught the sound at last, 



warren's select readings. 55 

Faint and far beyond the Goomtee, 

Rose and fell the piper's blast! 
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving, 

Mingled woman's voice and man's : 
" God be praised ! The march of Havelock 

And the piping of the clans ! " 

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, 

Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, 
Came the wild MacGregor's clan call, 

Stirring all the air to life. 
But when the far-off dust cloud 

To plaided legions grew, 
Full blithesomely and tenderly 

The pipes of rescue blew. 

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, 

Round red Dowla's golden shrine, 
Breathed the air to Briton's dearest, 

The air of " Auld Lang Syne." 
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums 

Rose that sweet and home-like strain, 
And the tartan clove the turban 

As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. 

Dear to the lowland reaper 

And plaided mountaineer, 
To the cottage and the castle, 

The piper's song is dear. 
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch 

O'er mountain glen and glade ; 
But the sweetest of all music 

The pipes at Lucknow played. 

J. G. Whitticr. 



56 warren's select readings. 

APOSTROPHE TO WATER. 

PAUL DENTON, a Methodist preacher in Texas, 
advertised a barbecue, with better liquor than is 
usually furnished. When the people were assembled, 
a desperado in the crowd walked up to him, and 
cried out : " Mr. Denton, your reverence has lied. 
You promised not only a good barbecue, but better 
liquor. Where 's the liquor ? " 

"There!" answered the preacher, in tones of thun- 
der, and pointing his motionless finger at a spring 
gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound 
like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth. 
" There ! " he repeated, with a look terrible as light- 
ning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet ; 
"there is the liquor which God the Eternal brews 
for all his children. Not in the simmering still, over 
smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded 
with the stench of sickening odors and rank corrup- 
tions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious 
essence of life — pure, cold water; but in the green 
glade and glassy dell, where the red deer wanders 
and the child loves to play — there God brews it; and 
down, down in the deepest valleys, where the fountains 
murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the moun- 
tain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in 
the sunlight, where the storm-clouds brood and the 
thunder-storms crash ; and far out on the wide, wide 
sea, where the hurricanes howl music, and the mighty 
waves roar the chorus, sweeping the march of God — 
there He brews it, that beverage of life — health-giv- 
ing water. 

"And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty — 



warren's select readings. 57 

whether gleaming in the dew-drop, pattering in the 
summer rain, shining in the ice-gem till the trees all 
seem turned into living jewels, spreading a golden 
veil over the setting sun, or a bright halo around the 
midnight moon, roaring in the cataract, sleeping in 
the glaciers, dancing in the hail-storm, folding its 
pearly white mantle gently about the wintry world, 
or weaving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone 
of the sky, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all 
checkered over with celestial flowers by the mystic 
hand of radiation — still always it is beautiful, that 
blessed life-water ! 

" There are no poison-bubbles on its brink ! Its 
foam brings no sadness or sorrow ! There are no 
blood -stains in its limpid glass! Broken-hearted 
wives, pale widows, and starving orphans shed no 
tears in its depths ! No drunkard's shrieking ghost 
from the grave curses it in words of eternal despair ! 
But it is beautiful, pure, blest, and glorious ! Give me 
forever the sparkling, pure, heavenly water ! " 

Paul Denton. 



THE GRENADIERS. 



TWO grenadiers travell'd towards France, one day, 
On leaving their prison in Russia, 
And sadly they hung their heads in dismay 
When they reach'd the frontiers of Prussia. 

For there they first heard the story of woe, 

That France had utterly perish'd, 
The grand army had met with an overthrow, 

They had captured their Emperor cherish'd. 



58 warren's select readings. 

Then both of the grenadiers wept full sore 

At hearing the terrible story ; 
And one of them said : "Alas ! once more 

My wounds are bleeding and gory." 

The other one said : " The game 's at an end, 

With thee I would die right gladly, 
But I Ve wife and child, whom at home I should tend, 

For without me they'll fare but badly. 

" What matters my child, what matters my wife ; 

A heavier care has arisen ; 
Let them beg, if they 're hungry, all their lives — 

My Emperor sighs in a prison ! 

" Dear brother, pray grant me this one last prayer ; 

If my hours I now must number, 
O take my corpse to my country fair, 
"That there it may peacefully slumber. 

" The legion of honor, with ribbon red, 

Upon my bosom place thou, 
And put in my hand my musket dread, 

And my sword around me brace thou. 

"And so in my grave will I silently lie, 
And watch like a guard o'er the forces, 

Until the roaring of cannon hear I, 
And the trampling of neighing horses. 

" My Emperor then will ride over my grave, 
While the swords glitter brightly and rattle; 

Then armed to the teeth will I rise from the grave, 
For my Emperor hasting to battle." — Heine. 



warren's select readings. 59 



SOME MOTHER'S CHILD. 

AT home or away, in the alley or street, 
Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet 
A girl that is thoughtless, or boy that is wild, 
My heart echoes softly, " 'T is some mother's child." 



And when I see those o'er whom long years have 

rolled, 
Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are 

cold, 
Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled, 
A voice whispers sadly, "Ah ! some mother's child." 

No matter how far from the right she hath strayed ; 
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made ; 
No matter what element cankered the pearl — 
Though tarnished and sullied, she is " some mother's 
girl." 

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been ; 
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin — 
No matter how low in his standard of joy — 
Though guilty and loathsome, he is " some mother's 
boy." 

That head hath been pillowed on tenderest breast ; 
That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been 

pressed ; 
That soul hath been prayed for in tones sweet and 

mild; 
For her sake deal gently with " some mother's child." 

Francis L. Keeler. 



60 warren's select readings. 

NOBODY'S CHILD. 

ALONE in the dreary, pitiless street, 
With my torn old dress and bare cold feet, 
All day I 've wandered to and fro, 
Hungry and shivering, nowhere to go. 
The night 's coming on in darkness and dread, 
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; 
Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? 
Is it because I 'm nobody's child ? 

Just over the way there 's a flood of light, 
And warmth and beauty and all things bright; 
Beautiful children in robes so fair, 
Are carolling songs in rapture there. 
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat? 

Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down 
In its terrible blackness all over the town ? 
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
On the cold, hard pavement alone to die ? — 
When the beautiful children their prayers have said, 
And mammas have tucked them up safely in bed, 
No dear mother upon me smiled; 
Why is it, I wonder ? I'm nobody's child. 

No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs run 
When I wander too near them ; 't is wondrous to see 
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! 



warren's select readings. 6i 

Perhaps 't is a dream ; but, sometimes, when I lie 
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
Watching for hours some large, bright star, 
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 

And a host of white-robed, nameless things 

Come fluttering o'er in gilded wings; 

A hand that is strangely soft and fair 

Caresses gently my tangled hair, 

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird — 

The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 

Calls me many a dear pet name 

Till my heart and spirit are all aflame, 

And tells me of such unbounded love, 

And bids me come up to their home above ; 

And then with such pitiful, sad surprise, 

They look at me with their soft, sweet blue eyes ; 

And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, 

I am going up to that world of light, 

And away from the hunger and storm so wild ; 

I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. — Anon. 



THE ART OF BEING HAPPY. 

THE art of being happy lies in the power of extract- 
ing happiness from common things. If we pitch 
our expectations high ; if we are arrogant in our pre- 
tensions ; if we will not be happy except when our 
self-love is gratified, our pride stimulated, our vanity 
fed, or a fierce excitement kindled ; then we shall have 
but little satisfaction out of this life ! The whole globe 
is a museum to those who have eyes to see. 
6 



62 warren's select readings. 

Rare plays are unfolded before every man who can 
read the drama of life intelligently. Not go to the 
theatres ? Wicked to see plays ? Every street is a 
theatre. One cannot open his eyes without seeing 
unconscious players. There are Othellos, and Ham- 
lets, and Leahs, and Fal staffs, Ophelias, Rosalinds, and 
Juliets all about us. Midsummer-night dreams are 
performing in our heavens. Happy ? A walk up and 
down Fulton street is as good as a play. The chil- 
dren, the nurses, the maidens, the mothers, the wealthy 
everybodies, the queer men, the unconscious buffoons, 
the drolls, the earnest nonsense, and the whimsical 
earnestness of men ; the shop windows, the cars, the 
horses, the carriages. Bless us ; there is not half time 
enough to enjoy all that is to be seen in these things ! 
Or, if the mood takes you, go in and talk with the 
people, choosing, of course, fitting times and seasons. 

Be cheerful yourself, and good-natured and respect- 
ful, and every man has a secret for you worth know- 
ing. There is a schoolmaster waiting for you behind 
every door. 

Every shopman has a look of life different from 
yours. Human nature puts on as many kinds of foli- 
age as trees do, and is far better worth studying. 
Anger is not alike in any two men ; nor pride, nor 
vanity, nor love. Every fool is a special fool, and 
there is no duplicate. What are trades and all kinds 
of business but laboratories where the ethereal thought 
is transmitted into some visible shape of matter ? Men 
are cutting, sawing, filing, fitting, joining, polishing. 
But every article is so much mind condensed in mat- 
ter. Work is incarnation. Nobody knows a city who 
only drives along its streets. There are vaults under 



warren's select readings. 6$ 

streets, cellars under houses, attics above, shops be- 
hind. At every step men are found tucked away in 
some queer work, doing unexpected things, themselves 
odd and full of entertaining knowledge. 

It is kindly sympathy with human life that enables 
one to secure happiness. Pride is like an unsilvered 
glass, through which all sights pass, leaving no im- 
pression. But sympathy, like a mirror, catches every- 
thing that lives. The whole world makes pictures for 
a mirror-heart. The best of all is that a kind heart 
and a keen eye are never within the sheriff's reach. 
He may sequester your goods ; but he cannot shut up 
the world or confiscate human life. As long as these 
are left, one may defy poverty, neglect of friends, and 
even to a degree misfortune and sickness, and still 
find hours brimful every day of innocent and nourish- 
ing enjoyment. — H. W. BeecJier. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 

LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five : 
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his friend, " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night, 
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch 
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal light 
One if by land, and two if by sea ; 
And I on the opposite shore will be. 



64 warren's select readings. 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
For the country-folk to be up and to arm." 

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar 

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 

Just as the moon rose over the bay, 

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 

The Somerset, British man-of-war : 

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 

Across the moon, like a prison-bar, 

And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified 

By its own reflection in the tide. 

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Till in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door, 
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church, 
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, 
To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
And startled the pigeons from their perch 
On the sombre rafters, that around him made 
Masses and moving shapes of shade — 
Up the light ladder, slender and tall, 
To the highest window in the wall, 
Where he paused to listen and look down 
A moment on the roofs of the quiet town, 
And the moonlight flowing over all. 



warren's select readings. 65 

Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead 
In their night encampment on the hill, 
Wrapped in silence so deep and still, 
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
The watchful night- wind as it went 
Creeping along from tent to tent, 
And seeming to whisper, "All is well ! " 
A moment only he feels the spell 
Of the place and the hour, the secret dread 
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
On a shadowy something far away, 
Where the river widens to meet the bay — 
A line of black, that bends and floats 
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 

Now he patted his horse's side, 

Now gazed on the landscape far and near, 

Then impetuous stamped the earth, 

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 

But mostly he watched with -eager search 

The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 

As it rose above the graves on the hill, 

Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still. 

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, 
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 
6* E 



66 warren's select readings. 

A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, ' 
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : 
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the 

light, 
The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 



It was twelve by the village clock, 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 

He heard the crowing of the cock, 

And the barking of the farmer's dog, 

And felt the damp of the river fog, 

That rises when the sun goes down. 



It was one by the village clock, 

When he rode into Lexington. 

He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 

Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 

As if they already stood aghast 

At the bloody work they would look upon. 

It was two by the village clock, 

When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 

He heard the bleating of the flock, 

And the twitter of birds among the trees, 

And felt the breath of the morning breeze 

Blowing over the meadows brown. 









warren's select readings. 67 

And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
Who that day would be lying dead, 
Pierced by a British musket-ball. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read 
How the British regulars fired and fled — 
How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm — 

A cry of defiance, and not of fear — 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 

And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 

Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need, 

The people will waken and listen to hear 

The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed, 

And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 

H. W. Longfellozv. 



68 warren's select readings. 

THE CHURCH OF BROIL 

THE CASTLE. 

DOWN the Savoy valleys sounding, 
Echoing round this castle old, 
'Mid the distant mountain chalets, 

Hark ! what bell for church is toll'd ? 



In the bright October morning, 
Savoy's Duke had left his bride; 

From the castle, past the drawbridge, 
Flow'd the hunters' merry tide. 

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering; 

Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 
From her mullion'd chamber casement 

Smiles the Duchess Marguerite. 

From Vienna by the Danube 

Here she came, a bride, in spring; 

Now the autumn crisps the forest, 
Hunters gather, bugles ring. 

Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, 
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance; 

Off! — They sweep the marshy forests, 
Westward, on the side of France. 

Hark ! the game 's on foot ; they scatter : 
Down the forest ridings lone, 

Furious, single horsemen gallop ; 

Hark ! a shout — a crash — a groan ! 



WARREN'S SELECT READINGS. 69 

Pale and breathless came the hunters, 

On the turf dead lies the boar; 
God ! the Duke lies stretched beside him 

Senseless, weltering in his gore. 



In the dull October evening, 

Down the leaf-strewn forest road, 

To the castle, past the drawbridge, 
Came the hunters with their load. 

In the hall, with sconces blazing, 
Ladies waiting round her seat, 

Cloth'd in smiles, beneath the dais, 
Sate the Duchess Marguerite. 

Hark ! below the gates unbarring ! 

Tramp of men and quick commands ! 
"'Tis my lord come back from hunting," - 

And the Duchess claps her hands. 

Slow and tired came the hunters ! 

Stopp'd in darkness in the court : 
" Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters ! 

To the hall ! What sport, what sport ? " 

Slow they entered with their master, 
In the hall they laid him down ; 

On his coat were leaves and blood-stains, 
On his brow an angry frown. 

Dead her princely youthful husband 
Lay before his youthful wife; 



JO WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces, 
And the sight froze all her life. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 

Kings hold revel, gallants meet; 

Gay of old amid the gayest 
Was the Duchess Marguerite. 

In Vienna, by the Danube, 

Feast and dance her youth beguil'd; 
Till that hour she never sorrow'd, 

But from then she never smil'd. 

'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys, 
Far from town or haunt of man, 

Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, 
Which the Duchess Maud began. 

Old, that Duchess stern began it, 
In gray age, with palsied hands ; 

But she died as it was building, 
And the church unfinish'd stands; 

Stands as erst the builders left it, 
When she sunk into her grave ; 

Mountain greensward paves the chancel, 
Harebells flower in the nave. 

" In my castle all is sorrow," 

Said the Duchess Marguerite then ; 

" Guide me, vassals, to the mountains ! 
We will build the church again." 



warren's select readings. yi 

Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, 
Austrian knights from Syria came; 

"Austrian wanderers bring, O warders, 
Homage to your Austrian dame." 

From the gate the warders answered, 
" Gone, O knights, is she you knew ; 

Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess, 
Seek her at the Church of Brou." 

Austrian knights and march-worn palmers 
Climb the winding mountain way; 

Reach the valley, where the fabric 
Rises higher day by day. 

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing; 

On the work the bright sun shines; 
In the Savoy mountain meadows, 

By the stream, below the pines. 

On her palfrey white, the Duchess 
Sate and watch'd her working train; 

Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 
German masons, smiths from Spain. 

Clad in black on her white palfrey, 

Her old architect beside, 
There they found her in the mountains, 

Morn, and noon, and eventide. 

There she sate and watch'd the builders, 
Till the Church was roof'd and done; 

Last of all, the builders rear'd her 
In the nave a tomb of stone. 



72 warren's select readings. 

On the tomb two forms they sculptur'd, 

Lifelike in the marble pale; 
One, the Duke, in helm and armor, 

One, the Duchess, in her veil. 

Round the tomb the carv'd stone fret-work 

Was at Easter-tide put on; 
Then the Duchess closed her labors, 

And she died at the St. John. 

Matthew Arnold. 



. THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he : 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 
"God speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un- 
drew; 
" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through; 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace — 
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our 

place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit — 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'T was moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 73 

And from Mechlen church-steeple we heard the half- 
chime, 
So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood, black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping, past; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent 

back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track : 
And one eye's black intelligence — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering 

knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 
'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like 
chaff; 
7 






74 warren's select readings. 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 
And " Gallop ! " gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 

"How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment his 

roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without 

peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad 

or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round, 
As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news 
from Ghent. — Robert Browning. 



warren's select readings. 75 

INFLUENCE OF THE CHARACTER OF WASH- 
INGTON. 

AMERICA has furnished to the world the character 
of Washington ! And if our American institutions 
had done nothing else, that alone would have entitled 
them to the respect of mankind. 

Washington ! " First in war, first in peace, and first 
in the hearts of his countrymen ! " Washington is all 
our own ! The enthusiastic veneration and regard in 
which the people of the United States held him, prove 
them to be worthy of such a countryman ; while his 
reputation abroad reflects the highest honor of his 
country and its institutions. 

I would cheerfully put the question to-day to the 
intelligence of Europe and the world, What character 
of the century, upon the whole, stands out in the relief 
of history, most pure, most respectable, most sublime ? 
and I doubt not that, by a suffrage approaching to 
unanimity, the answer would be Washington! 

The structure now standing before us, by its up- 
rightness, its solidity, its durability, is no fit emblem 
of his character. His public virtues and public princi- 
ples were as firm as the earth on which it stands ; his 
personal motives as pure as the serene heavens in 
which its summit is lost. But, indeed, though a fit, it 
is an inadequate emblem. 

Towering high above the column which our hands 
have builded, beheld, not by the inhabitants of a single 
city or a single state, but by all the families of man, 
ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life 
of Washington. 

In all the constituents of the one ; in all the acts of 



j6 warren's select readings. 

the other: in all its titles to immortal love, admiration 
and renown, it is an American production. It is the 
embodiment and vindication of our Transatlantic lib- 
erty. 

Born upon our soil, of parents born upon it ; never 
for a moment having had sight of the Old World ; in- 
structed, according to the modes of his time, only in 
the spare, plain, but wholesome elementary knowledge 
which our institutions provided for the children of the 
people; growing up beneath and protected by the 
genuine influence of American society; living from 
infancy to manhood and age amidst our expanding 
but not luxurious civilization ; partaking in our great 
destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed 
nature and uncivilized man, our long agony of glory, 
the War of Independence, our great victory of peace, 
the formation of the Union, and the establishment of 
the Constitution ; he is all, all our own ! 

Washington is ours, that crowded and glorious life, 

"Where multitudes- of virtues passed along, 
Each pressing foremost in the mighty throng, 
Ambitious to be seen ; then making room 
For greater multitudes that were to come," 

that life was the life of an American citizen. 

I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every 
darkened moment of the State, in the midst of the 
reproaches of enemies and the misgiving of friends, I 
turn to that transcendent name for courage and for 
consolation. To him who denies or doubts whether 
our fervid liberty can be combined with law, with 
order, with the security of property, with the pursuits 
and advancement of happiness; to him who denies 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. JJ 

that our forms of government are capable of producing 
exaltation of soul and the passion of true glory; to 
him who denies that we have contributed anything to 
the stock of great lessons and great examples — to all 
these I reply by pointing to Washington. 

D. Webster. 



THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 

HERE I come, creeping, creeping everywhere 
By the dusty roadside, 
On the sunny hillside, 
Close by the noisy brook, 
In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, smiling everywhere; 

All round the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor; 

Here where the children play, 

In the bright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere; 

In the noisy city street 

My pleasant face you '11 meet, 

Cheering the sick at heart, 

Toiling his busy part, 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere; 
You cannot see me coming, 
Nor hear my low sweet humming; 

7* 



yS warren's select readings. 

For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning light, 
I come quietly creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere; 
When you 're numbered with the dead, 
In your still and narrow bed, 
In the happy spring I '11 come 
And deck your silent home — 

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere; 

My humble song of praise 

Most joyfully I raise 

To Him at whose command 

I beautify the land ; 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Sarah Roberts. 



ARNOLD WINKELRIED. 

In the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth eentury, this 
martyr-patriot, perceiving that there was no other means of 
breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gather- 
ing as many of their spears as he could grasp together, opened, 
by this means, a passage for his fellow-combatants, who, with 
hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms, 
and won the victory. 

MAKE way for liberty!" he cried — 
Made way for liberty, and died! 

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, 
A living wall, a human wood; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. JQ 

Impregnable their front appears, 
All horrent with projected spears. 
Opposed to these, a hovering band 
Contended for their fatherland, 
Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke 
From manly necks the ignoble yoke; 
Marshalled once more at Freedom's call, 
They came to conquer or to fall. 

And now the work of life and death 

Hung on the passing of a breath ; 

The fire of conflict burned within ; 

The battle trembled to begin : 

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, 

Point for assault was nowhere found; 

Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, 

The unbroken line of lances blazed ; 

That line 't were suicide to meet, 

And perish at their tyrants' feet. 

How could they rest within their graves, 

To leave their homes the haunts of slaves? 

Would they not feel their children tread, 

With clanking chains, above their head? 

It must not be ; this day, this hour, 
Annihilates the invader's power! 
All Switzerland is in the field — 
She will not fly; she cannot yield; 
She must not fall ; her better fate 
Here gives her an immortal date. 
Few were the numbers she could boast, 
But every freeman was a host, 



80 warren's select readings. 

And felt as though himself were he 
On whose sole arm hung victory. 

It did depend on one, indeed; 

Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! 

There sounds not to the trump of Fame 

The echo of a nobler name. 

Unmarked, he stood amid the throng, 

In rumination deep and long, 

Tiil you might see, with sudden grace, 

The very thought come o'er his face; 

And, by the motion of his form, 

Anticipate the bursting storm ; 

And, by the uplifting of his brow, 

Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. 

But 'twas no sooner thought than done — 

The field was in a moment won ! 

" Make way for liberty ! " he cried, 

Then ran, with arms extended wide, 

As if his dearest friend to clasp ; 

Ten spears he swept within his grasp. 

" Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; 

Their keen points crossed from side to side ; 

He bowed among them, like a tree, 

And thus made way for liberty. 

Swift to the breach his comrades fly — 

" Make way for liberty ! " they cry, 

And through the Austrian phalanx dart, 

As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart, 

While, instantaneous as his fall, 

Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all. 






warren's select readings. 8i 

An earthquake could not overthrow 
A city with a surer blow. 

Thus Switzerland again was free — 
Thus death made way for liberty! 

James Montgomery. 



HOW THE CHURCH OF ST. MICHAEL'S WAS 
SAVED. 



IT was long ago, 
That blazed ab 



ere ever the signal-gun 
above Fort Sumter had wakened the 
North as one ; 
Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire 
Had marked where the unchained millions marched 
on to their heart's desire. 

On the roofs and the glittering turrets, that night, as 
the sun went down, 

The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled 
crown ; 

And, bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted 
their eyes, 

They saw the pride of the city, the spire of St. Mi- 
chael's rise 

High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden 
ball, 

That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earth- 
ward fall, — 

First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the 
harbor-round, 

And last slow- fading vision dear to the outward bound. 

F 



82 warren's select readings. 

The gently gathering shadows shut out the waning 
light; 

The children prayed at their bedsides, as you will 
pray to-night ; 

The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was 
gone; 

And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slum- 
bered on. 



But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping 

street ; 
For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of 

trampling feet; 
Men stared in each other's faces through mingled fire 

and smoke, 
While the frantic bells went clashing, clamorous stroke 

on stroke. 

By the glare of her blazing roof-tree the houseless 

mother fled, 
With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in 

nameless dread, 
While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and 

capstone high, 
And planted their flaring banners against an inky sky. 

For the death that raged behind them, and the crash 
of ruin loud, 

To the great square of the city were driven the surg- 
ing crowd ; 

Where yet, firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the 
fiery flood, 

With its heavenward-pointing finger the Church of 
St. Michael stood. 



warren's select readings. 83 

But e'en as they gazed upon it there rose a sudden 

wail, — 
A cry of horror, blended with the roaring of the gale, 
On whose scorching *wings up-driven, a single flaming 

brand 
Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody 

hand. 

Will it fade ? " The whisper trembled from a thou- 
sand whitening lips; 
Far out in the lurid harbor they watched it from the 

ships, — 
A baleful gleam that brighter and ever brighter shone, 
Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady 
beacon grown. 

"Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose 
brave right hand, 

For the love of the periled city, plucks down yon 
burning brand ! " 

So cried the mayor of Charleston, that all the peo- 
ple heard ; 

But they looked each one at his fellow ; and no man 
spoke a word. 

Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to 
the sky, 

Clings to a column, and measures the dizzy spire with 
his eye? 

Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sick- 
ening height? 

Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins 
at the sight ? 



84 warren's select readings. 

But see ! he has stepped on the railing ; he climbs 
with his feet and his hands ; 

And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry be- 
neath him, he stands ; • 

Now once, and once only, they cheer him, — a single 
tempestuous breath, — 

And there falls on the multitude gazing a hush like 
the stillness of death. 

Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the 

goal of the fire, 
Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face 

of the spire. 
He stops ! Will he fall ? Lo ! for answer, a gleam 

like a meteor's track, 
And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red 

brand lies shattered and black. 

Once more the shouts of the people have rent the 

quivering air : 
At the church-door mayor and council wait with their 

feet on the stair ; 
And the eager throng behind them press for a touch 

of his hand, — 
The unknown savior, whose daring could compass a 

deed so grand. 

But why does a sudden tremor seize on them while 

they gaze ? 
And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and 

amaze ? 
He stood in the gate of the temple he had periled his 

life to save; 
And the face of the hero, my children, was the sable 

face of a slave ! 






warren's select readings. 85 

With folded arms he was speaking, in tones that were 

clear, not loud, 
And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the 

eyes of the crowd : — 
" You may keep your gold : I scorn it ! — but answer 

me, ye who can, 
If the deed I have done before you be not the deed 

of a man ? " 

He stepped but a short space backward ; and from all 

the women and men 
There were only sobs for answer; and the mayor 

called for a pen, 
And the great seal of the city, that he might read who 

ran : 
And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from 

its door a man. 



MRS. SIDDONS. 



MRS. SIDDONS, as an artist, presented a singular 
example of the union of all the faculties, mental 
and physical, which constitute excellence in her art, 
directed to the end for which they seemed created. 
In any other situation or profession, some one or 
other of her splendid gifts would have been misplaced 
or dormant. 

It was her especial .good fortune, and not less that 
of the time in which she lived, that this wonderful 
combination of mental powers and external graces was 
fully and completely developed by the circumstances 
in which she was placed. 
8 



86 warren's select readings. 

With the most commanding beauty of face and 
form, and varied grace of action ; with the most noble 
combination of features, and extensive capability of 
expression in each of them ; with an unequalled genius 
for her art, the utmost patience in study, and the 
strongest ardor of feeling, there was not a passage 
which she could not delineate ; not the nicest shade, 
not the most delicate modification of passion, which 
she could not seize with philosophical accuracy, and 
render with such immediate force of nature and truth, 
as well as precision, that what was the result of pro- 
found study and unwearied practice, appeared like 
sudden inspiration. There was not a height of gran- 
deur to which she could not soar, nor a darkness of 
misery to which she could not descend ; not a chord 
of feeling, from the sternest to the most delicate, which 
she could not cause to vibrate at her will. She had 
reached that point of perfection in her art where it 
ceases to be art, and becomes a second nature. 

She had studied most profoundly the forms and 
capabilities of language, so that the most critical 
sagacity could not have suggested a delicacy of em- 
phasis by which the meaning of the author might be 
more distinctly conveyed ; or a shade of intonation by 
which the sentiment could be more fully or more faith- 
fully expressed. 

The grand characteristic of her mind was power, but 
it was power of a very peculiar kind ; it was slowly 
roused, slowly developed, not easily moved ; her per- 
ceptions were not rapid, nor her sensations quick ; she 
required time for everything, — time to think, time to 
comprehend, time to speak. There was nothing 
superficial about her, no vivacity of manner; to petty 






warren's select readings. 87 



gossip she would not descend, and evil speaking she 
abhorred; she cared not to shine in general conver- 
sation. 

Like some majestic "Argosie," bearing freight of 
precious metal, she was aground and cumbrous and 
motionless among the shallows of common life ; but 
set her upon the deep waters of poetry and passion — 
there was her element, there was her reign. Ask 
her an opinion, she could not give it you till she had 
looked on the subject, and considered it on every side, 
— then you might trust to it without appeal. Her 
powers, though not easily put in motion, were di- 
rected by an incredible energy; her mind, when 
called to action, seemed to rear itself up like a great 
wave of the sea, and roll forwards with an irresistible 
force. 

This prodigious intellectual power was one of her 
chief characteristics. Another was truth, which in the 
human mind is generally allied with power. It is, I 
think, a mistaken idea, that habits of impersonation on 
the stage tend to impair the sincerity or the individu- 
ality of a character. 

Her mind was a perfect mirror of the sublime and 
beautiful ; like a lake that reflected only the heavens 
above, or the summits of the mountains around, noth- 
ing below a certain level could appear in it. The ideal 
was her vital air. She breathed with difficulty in the 
atmosphere of this " working-day world," and with- 
drew from it as much as possible. 

She was credulous, simple, to an extraordinary de- 
gree. Profession had, therefore, too much weight 
with her. She was accustomed to manifestations of 
the sentiments she excited, and in seeking the demon- 



88 warren's select readings. 

stration, sometimes overlooked the silent reality; this 
was a consequence of her profession. 

She was not only exact in the performance of her 
religious duties; her religion was a pervading senti- 
ment, influencing her to the strictest observance of 
truth and charity, — I mean charity in judging others; 
the very active and excursive benevolence which 

" Seeks the duty, nay ', prevents the need," 

would have been incompatible with her toilsome en- 
grossing avocations, and with the visionary tendencies 
of her character. But the visionary has his own 
sphere of action, and can often touch the master 
springs of other minds, so as to give the first impulse 
to the good deeds flowing from them. 

There are some who can trace back to the sympa* 
thies which Mrs. Siddons awakened, their devotedness 
to the cause of the suffering and oppressed. Faith- 
fully did she perform the part in life which she be- 
lieved allotted to her; and who may presume to judge 
that she did not choose the better part ? 

Mrs. Jameson. 



THE LORE-LEI. 



A witch, who, in the form of a lovely maiden, used to place 
herself on the remarkable rock called the Lurleyberg, overlook- 
ing the Rhine, and by her magic songs arresting the attention 
of the boatmen, lured them into the neighboring whirlpool. 

I KNOW not whence it rises, 
This thought so full of woe ; 
But a tale of times departed 
Haunts me, and will not go. 



warren's select readings. 89 

The air is cool, and it darkens, 

And calmly flows the Rhine, 
The mountain peaks are sparkling 

In the sunny evening-shine. 

And yonder sits a maiden, 

The fairest of the fair; 
With gold is her garment glittering, 

And she combs her golden hair: 

With a golden comb she combs it; 

And a wild song singeth she, 
That melts the heart with a wondrous 

And powerful melody. 

The boatman feels his bosom 
With a nameless longing move; 

He sees not the gulfs before him, 
His gaze is fixed above, 

Till over boat and boatman 

The Rhine's deep waters run ; 
And this, with her magic singing, 

The Lore-lei has done ! — Heine. 



OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
BE PROUD? 

OH ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 

8* 



90 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around, and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie. 

The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
The mother that infant's affection who proved ; 
The husband, that mother and infant who blest, — 
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose 

eye, 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
And the memory of those who loved her and praised, 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep ; 
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, 
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven ; 
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven ; 
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed 
That withers away to let others succeed ; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 9I 

So the multitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that has often been told. 

For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; 
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would 

shrink ; 
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling; 
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing. 

They loved — but the story we cannot unfold; 

They scorned — but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 

They grieved — but no wail from their slumber will 

come; 
They joyed — but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. 

They died — ay, they died ; — we things that are now, 
That walked on the turf that lies over their brow, 
And make in their dwellings a transient abode, 
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, 
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain ; 
And the smile and the tear, the song and the d;rge, 
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye — 'tis the draught of a breath — 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud: — 
Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 



92 warren's select readings. 

CAESAR'S PAUSE UPON THE RUBICON. 

AN advocate of Caesar's character, speaking of his 
benevolent disposition, and of the reluctance with 
which he entered into the civil war, observes : " How 
long did he pause upon the brink of the Rubicon?" 
How came he to the brink of that river? How dared 
he cross it ? Shall private men respect the boundaries 
of private property, and shall a man pay no respect to 
the boundaries of his country's rights? How dared 
he cross that river ? Oh ! but he paused upon the 
brink! He should have perished on the brink, ere he 
crossed it ! Why did he pause ? Why does a man's 
heart palpitate when he is on the point of committing 
an unlawful deed? Why does the very murderer — 
his victim sleeping before him, and his glaring eye 
taking measure of the blow — strike wide of the mortal 
part ? Because of conscience ! 'T was that made Caesar 
pause upon the brink of the Rubicon. Compassion ! — 
what compassion ? The compassion of an assassin, that 
feels a momentary shudder as his weapon begins to cut! 
Caesar paused upon the brink of the Rubicon ! 
What was the Rubicon? The boundary of Caesar's 
province. From what did it separate his province? 
From his country. Was that country a desert ? No ; 
it was cultivated and fertile ; rich and populous ! Its 
sons were men of genius, spirit, and generosity! Its 
daughters were lovely, susceptible, and chaste ! Friend- 
ship was its inhabitant! Liberty was its inhabitant! 
All bounded by the stream of the Rubicon ! What 
was Caesar that stood upon the brink of that stream ? 
A traitor, bringing war and pestilence into the heart 
of that country ! No wonder that he paused ! No 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 93 

wonder if, in his imagination, wrought upon by his 
conscience, he had beheld blood instead of water, 
and heard groans instead of murmurs. No wonder if 
some Gorgon horror had turned him into stone upon 
the spot. But, no ! he cried, " The die is cast ! " He 
plunged! — he crossed! — and Rome was free no more. 

jf. S. Knowles. 



HOME AND COUNTRY. 

THERE is a land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven, o'er all the world beside; 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder moons emparadise the night ; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,' 
Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth; 
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; 
In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; 
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest. 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 
Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife, 
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ; 



94 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel guard of loves and graces lie ; 
Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
" Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? " 
Art thou a man ? a patriot ? look around ; 
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! 

J. Montgomery. 



MY COUNTRY. 



BREATHES there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned 
As home his footsteps he hath turned, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go mark him well ; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell ! 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim. 
Despite these titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

O, Caledonia! stern and wild, 

Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood ; 

Land of the mountain and the flood; 



warren's select readings. 95 

Land of my sires, what mortal hand 

Can ere untie the filial band 

That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 

Still, as I view each well-known scene, 

Think what is now, and what hath been, 

Seems, as to me, of all bereft. 

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; 

And thus I love them better still, 

Even in extremity of ill. 

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray ; 

Though none should guide my feeble way; 

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 

Although it chill my withered cheek; 

Still lay my head by Teviot stone, 

Though there forgotten and alone, 

The Bard may draw his parting groan. 

Walter Scott. 



JOHN MAYNARD. 

JOHN MAYNARD was well known in the lake dis- 
trict as a God-fearing, honest, and intelligent man. 
He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. 
One summer afternoon — at that time those steamers 
seldom carried boats — smoke was seen ascending 
from below, and the captain called out : " Simpson, 
go below and see what the matter is down there." 

Simpson came up with his face pale as ashes, and 
said : 

" Captain, the ship is on fire." Then " Fire ! fire ! 
fire ! " on shipboard. 

All hands were called up, buckets of water were 
dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large 



g6 warren's select readings. 

quantities of resin and tar on board, and it was 
found useless to attempt to save the ship. The pass- 
engers rushed forward, and inquired of the pilot : 
" How far are we from Buffalo ? " 

"Seven miles." 

" How long before we can reach there ? " 

" Three-quarters of an hour, at our present rate of 
steam." 

" Is there any danger ? " 

" Danger ! Here, see the smoke bursting .out ! Go 
forward, if you would save your lives." 

Passengers and crew — men, women, and children — 
crowded the forward part of the ship. 

John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst 
forth in a sheet of fire ; clouds of smoke arose. 

The captain cried out through his trumpet: "John 
Maynard ! " 

"Ay, ay, sir ! " 

"Are you at the helm?" 

"Ay, ay, sir!" 

" How does she head ? " 

" Southeast by east, sir." 

" Head her southeast and run her on shore," said 
the captain. 

Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she approached the shore. 
Again the captain cried out, "John Maynard ! " 

The response came feebly this time: "Ay, ay, sir! " 

"Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he 
said. 

" By God's help, I will ? " 

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp, 
one hand disabled ; his knee upon the stanchion, and 
his teeth set, with his other hand upon the wheel, he 






WAR.REN S SELECT READINGS. 97 

stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every 
man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard 
dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God. 

J. B. Gough. 



THE WRECK. 

IT was broad day — eight or nine o'clock ; the storm 
raging in lieu of the batteries ; and some one knock- 
ing and calling at my door. 

" What is the matter ? " I cried. 

" A wreck ! close by ! " 

I sprang out of bed, and asked : " What wreck ? " 

"A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with 
fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see 
her ! It 's thought, down on the beach, she '11 go to 
pieces every moment." 

The excited voice went clamoring along the stair- 
case ; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly 
as I could, and ran into the street. 

Numbers of people were there before me, all run- 
ning in one direction to the beach. I ran the same 
way, outstripping a good many, and soon came facing 
the wild sea. 

The wind might, by this time, have lulled a little, 
though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I 
had dreamed of, had been diminished by the silencing 
of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea, 
having upon it the additional agitation of the whole 
night, was infinitely more terrific than when I had 
seen it last. Every appearance it had then presented 
bore the expression of being swelled; and the height 
to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one 
9 G 



98 warren's select readings. 

another, bore one another down and rolled in, in inter- 
minable hosts, was most appalling. 

In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and 
waves, in the crowd and the unspeakable confu- 
sion, and my first breathless efforts to stand against 
the weather, I was so confused that I looked out to 
sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming 
heads of the great waves. 

A half-dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed 
with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow on it pointing in 
the same direction) to the left. Then, O great Heaven, 
I saw it, close in upon us ! 

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet 
from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a 
maze of sail and rigging; and all that ruin as the ship 
rolled and beat — which she did without a moment's 
pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable — beat 
the side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were 
even then being made to cut this portion of the wreck 
away ; for as the ship, which was broadside on, turned 
towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her peo- 
ple at work with axes, especially one active figure with 
long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a 
great cry, which was audible even above the wind and 
water, rose from the shore at this moment; the sea, 
sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, 
and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps 
of such toys, into the boiling surge. 

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags 
of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage 
flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the 
same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted 
in and struck again. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 99 

I understood him to add that she was parting amid- 
ships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling 
and beating were too tremendous for any human work 
to suffer long. As he spoke, there was another great 
cry of pity from the beach ; four men arose with the 
wreck out- of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the 
remaining mast, uppermost the active figure with the 
curling hair. 

There was a bell on board ; and as the ship rolled 
and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, now 
showing us the whole sweep of her deck as she turned 
on her beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but 
her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towards 
the sea, the bell rang; and its sound, the knell of 
those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the 
wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two 
men were gone. The agony on shore increased. 
Men groaned, and clasped their hands ; women 
shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran 
wildly up and down along the beach, crying for help 
where no help could be. I found myself one of these, 
frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, 
not to let those two lost creatures perish before our 
eyes. 

They were making out to me, in an agitated way, I 
don't know how — for the little I could hear I was 
scarcely composed enough to understand — that the 
lifeboat had been barely manned an hour ago, and 
could do nothing ; and that as no man would be so 
desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and 
establish a communication with the shore, there was 
nothing left to try ; when I noticed that some new 
sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw 



100 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

them part, and Ham come breaking through them to 
the front. 

I ran to him — as well as I know — to repeat my 
appeal for help. But, distracted though I was, by a 
sight so new to me, and terrible, the determination in 
his face, and his look out to sea — exactly the same 
look as I remembered in connection with the morning 
after Emily's flight — awoke me to a knowledge of 
his danger. I held him back with both arms ; and 
implored the men with whom I had been speaking 
not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him 
stir from off that sand ! 

Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the 
wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat 
off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph 
round the active figure left alone upon the mast. 

Against such a sight, and against such determina- 
tion as that of the calmly desperate man who was 
already accustomed to lead half the people present, I 
might as hopefully have entreated the wind. " Mas r 
Davy," he said, cheerfully grasping me by both hands, 
" if my time is come, 't is come. If 't a'n't, I '11 bide it. 
Lord above bless you, and bless all ! Mates, make 
me ready ! I 'm a-going off! " 

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some dis- 
tance, where the people around me made me stay; 
urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was bent on 
going, with help or without, and that I should en- 
danger the precautions for his safety by troubling 
those with whom they rested. I don't know what I 
answered or what they rejoined ; but I saw hurry on 
the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan 
that was there, and penetrating into a circle of figures 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 101 

that hid him from me. Then I saw him standing 
alone, in a seaman's frock and trowsers ; a rope in his 
hand, or slung to his wrist, another round his body, 
and several of the best men holding, at a little dis- 
tance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack 
upon the shore, at his feet. 

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was break- 
ing up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, 
and that the life of the solitary man upon the mast 
hung by a thread. Still he clung to it. He had a 
singular red cap on, not like a sailor's cap, but of a 
fine color; and as the few yielding planks between 
him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his antici- 
pative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to 
wave it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was 
going distracted, when his action brought an old re- 
membrance to my mind of a once dear friend. 

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the 
silence of suspended breath behind him, and the storm 
before, until there was a great returning wave, when 
with a backward glance at those who held the rope 
which was made fast around his body, he dashed in 
after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the 
water — rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, 
lost beneath the foam, then drawn again to land. 
They hauled in hastily. 

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face from where 
I stood; but he took no thought of that. He seemed 
hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving him 
more free — or so I judged from the motion of his 
arm — and was gone as before. 

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the 
hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged 
9* 



102 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

foam, borne in towards the shore, borne on towards 
the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance 
was nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made 
the strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. 
He was so near, that with one more of his vigorous 
strokes he would be clinging to it, when a high, green, 
vast hillside of water, moving on shoreward from be- 
yond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a 
mighty bound, and the ship was gone ! 

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a 
mere cask had been broken, in running to the spot 
where they were hauling in. Consternation was in 
every face. They drew him to my very feet— insen- 
sible — dead. He was carried to the nearest house ; 
and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, 
busy, while every means of restoration were tried; but 
he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and 
his generous heart was stilled forever. 

Charles Dickens. 



AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

OGOOD painter, tell me true, 
Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of things that you never saw ? 
Ay? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over bright, — 
Yet all in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. IO3 

Alway and alway, night and morn, 
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 

Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
When the wind can hardly find breathing room 

Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
Biting shorter the short green grass, 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! 

These and the little house where I was born, 

Low and little and black and old, 

With children, many as it can hold, 

All at the windows, open wide, — 

Heads and shoulders clear outside, 

And fair young faces all ablush ; 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 

Roses crowding the self-same way, 
Out of a wilding, way-side bush. 

Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 

A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 

Looked down upon, you must paint for me. 

Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
The woman's soul and the angel's face, 

That are beaming on me all the while ! 

I need not speak these foolish words : 
Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 

She is my mother : you will agree 
That all the rest may be thrown away. 



104 warren's select readings. 

Two little urchins at her knee 

You must paint, sir; one like me — 

The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 

At ten years old he went to sea, — 
God knoweth if he be living now, — 
He sailed in the good ship " Commodore," — • 

Nobody ever crossed her track 

To bring us news, and she never came back. 
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck: 

I watched him till he shrank to a speck, 
And his face was toward me all the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 

The time we stood at our mother's knee; 
That beauteous head, if it did go down, 

Carried sunshine into the sea! 

Out in the fields one summer night 

We were together, half afraid 

Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
Of the high hills, stretching so still and far,- 
Loitering till after the low little light 
Of the candle shone through the open door, 

And, over the hay-stack's pointed top, 

All of a tremble, and ready to drop 

The first half-hour, the great yellow star, 

That we, with staring, ignorant eyes, 
Had often and often watched to see 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree ; 



warren's select readings. 105 

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, — 
Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreadth of shadow day after day. 
Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
The other, a bird held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she would n't eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her still. 

At jast we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me ; 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed: 
But that's no matter, — paint it so. 

The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 

Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 

Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 

But straight through our faces down to our lies, 

And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, 
I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though 

A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know, 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 



io6 warren's select readings. 

Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — 

The mother, — the lads, with their bird at her knee, 

But, oh that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I '11 shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 

Alice Carey. 

THE CHARCOAL MAN. 

THOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast, 
And sifting snows fall white and fast, 
Mark Haley drives along the street, 
Perched high upon his wagon seat; 
His sombre face the storm defies, 
And thus from morn till eve he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
While echo faint and far replies, — 

"Hark, O! Hark, O!" 
" Charco'!" — "Hark, O!" — snch cheery sounds 
Attend him on his daily rounds. 

The dust begrimes his ancient hat; 

His coat is darker far than that; 

'T is odd to see his sooty form 

All speckled with the feathery storm ; 

Yet in his honest bosom lies 

Nor spot nor speck, — though still he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
And many a roguish lad replies, 

"Ark, ho! Ark, ho!" 
"Charco'!" — "Ark, ho ! " — such various sounds 
Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 

Thus all the cold and wintry day 
He labors much for little pay; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 107 

Yet feels no less of happiness 
Than many a richer man, I guess, 
When through the shades of eve he spies 
The light of his own home, and cries, — 

"Charco'! charco' ! " 
And Martha from the door replies, — 

"Mark, ho! Mark, ho!" 
"Charco'!" — "Mark, ho!" — such joy abounds 
When he has closed his daily rounds. 

The hearth is warm, the fire is bright; 

And while his hand, washed clean and white, 

Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 

His glowing face bends fondly o'er 

The crib wherein his darling lies, 

And in a coaxing tone he cries, — 

" Charco' ! charco' ! " 
And baby with a laugh replies, — 

" Ah go ! ah go ! " 
" Charco' !"—" Ah go!" — while at the sounds 
The mother's heart with gladness bounds. 

Then honored be the charcoal man ! 

Though dusky as an African, 

'T is not for you, that chance to be 

A little better clad than he, 

His honest manhood to despise, 

Although from morn till eve he cries, — 

" Charco' ! — charco' ! " 
While mocking echo still replies, — 

"Hark, O! hark, O!" 
" Charco' ! " — " Hark, O ! " — long may the sounds 
Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds. 

jf. T. Trowbridge. 



108 warren's select readings. 

ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST. 

THE scene opens with a view of the great Natural 
Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads 
standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to 
that vast arch of unhewn rocks, which the Almighty 
bridged over those everlasting butments "when the 
morning stars sung together." The little piece of sky 
spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, al- 
though it is midday. 

It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, 
up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone, to the 
key-rock of that vast arch, which appears to them only 
of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is 
rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls 
from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is dark- 
ened, and the boys have unconsciously uncovered their 
heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the 
Majesty of the whole earth. 

At last this feeling begins to wear away; they begin 
to look around them ; they find that others have been 
there before them. They see the names of hundreds 
cut in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes 
over their young hearts, and their knives are in their 
hands in an instant. " What man has done, man can 
do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves 
up, and carve their names a foot above those of a hun- 
dred full-grown men who have been there before them. 

They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exer- 
tion, except one, whose example illustrates perfectly 
the forgotten truth, that there is no royal road to in- 
tellectual eminence. This ambitious youth sees a 
name just above his reach — a name that will be green 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. IO9 

in the memory of the world, when those of Alexander, 
Caesar, and Bonaparte shall be lost in oblivion. It was 
the name of Washington. 

Before he marched with Braddock to that fatal field, 
he had been there, and left his name a foot above all 
his predecessors. It was a glorious thought of the 
boy, to write his name side by side with that of the 
great father of his country. He grasped his knife with 
a firmer hand, and clinging to a little jutting crag, he 
cuts again into the limestone, about a foot above where 
he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his 
hands. 

'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet 
and hands into those gains, and draws himself up care- 
fully to another niche, again he carves his name in 
larger capitals. This is not enough. Heedless of 
the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs 
again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow 
wider apart. He measures his length at every gain 
he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and 
weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. 

He now, for the first time, casts a look beneath him. 
Had that glance lasted a moment, that moment would 
have been his last. He clings with a convulsive shud- 
der to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss 
awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe 
exertion, and trembling from the sudden view of the 
dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His 
knife* is half worn away to the haft. He can hear the 
voices, but not the words of his terror-stricken com- 
panions below. What a moment ! What a meagre 
chance to escape destruction ! There is no retracing 
his steps. It is impossible to put his hand into the 
10 



110 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a 
moment. 

His companions instantly perceive this new and 
fearful dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that 
" freeze their young blood." He is too high, too faint, 
to ask for his father and mother, and brothers and sis- 
ters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But 
one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as 
the wind, he bounds down the channel, and the situa- 
tion of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearth- 
stone. 

Minutes of almost eternal length roll on, and there 
are hundreds standing in that rocky channel, and hun- 
dreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, 
and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy 
hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above 
and below. He can distinguish the tones of his father, 
who is shouting, with all the energy of despair, " Wil- 
liam ! William ! don't look down ! Your mother, and 
Henry, and Harriet, are all here, praying for you ! 
Don't look down ! Keep your eye towards the top ! " 

The boy did n't look down. His eye is fixed like a 
flint towards heaven, and his young heart on Him who 
reigns there. He grasps again his knife. He cuts 
another niche, and another foot is added to the hun- 
dreds that remove him from the reach of human help 
from below. How carefully he uses his wasting blade! 
How anxiously he selects the softest places in that 
vast pier! How he avoids every flinty grain! 'How 
he economizes his physical powers, resting a moment 
at each gain he cuts ! How every motion is watched 
from below ! There stand his father, mother, brother, 
and sister, on the very spot, where, if he falls, he will 
not fall alone. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. Ill 

% 

The sun is half-way down the west. The lad has 
made fifty additional niches in that mighty wall, and 
now finds himself directly under the middle of that 
vast arch of rocks, earth, and trees. He must cut his 
way in a new direction, to get from under this over- 
hanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying 
in his bosom ; its vital heat is fed by the increasing 
shouts of hundreds, perched upon cliffs and trees, and 
others who stand with ropes in their hands on the 
bridge above, or with ladders below. 

Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest 
rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again 
into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully, 
foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. Spliced ropes 
are ready in the hands of those who are leaning over 
the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more and 
all must be over. The blade is worn to the last half 
inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting 
from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his 
heart; his life must hang on the next gain he cuts. 
That niche is his last. 

At the last faint gash he makes, his knife — his 
faithful knife — falls from his little nerveless hand, and 
ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. 
An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death- 
knell through the channel below, and all is still as the 
grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, 
the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closes his 
eyes to commend his soul to God. 

'T is but a moment — there! one foot swings off — 
he is reeling — trembling — toppling over into eter- 
nity ! Hark ! a shout falls on his ear from above ! The 
man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, 



112 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 



has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. 
Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of 
the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint 
convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arms 
into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with 
the words of God and mother whispered on his lips 
just loud enough to be heard in heaven, the tighten- 
ing rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a 
lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; 
but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws 
up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before 
the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such 
leaping and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear 
of a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf 
of eternity. — Elihu Burritt. 



THE MAIN-TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. 

OLD Ironsides at anchor lay, 
In the harbor of Mahon ; 
A dead calm rested on the bay, 
The waves to sleep had gone; 
When little Hal, the captain's son, 

A lad both brave and good, 
In sport up shroud and rigging ran, 
And on the main-truck stood ! 

A shudder shot through every vein, 
All eyes were turned on high ! 

There stood the boy, with dizzy brain, 
Between the sea and sky; 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. II3 

No hold had he above, below, 

Alone he stood in air; 
To that far height none dared to go; 

No aid could reach him there. 

We gazed, — but not a man could speak! 

With horror all aghast, 
In groups with pallid brow and cheek, 

We watched the quivering mast. 
The atmosphere grew thick and hot, 

And of a lurid hue, 
As, riveted unto the spot, 

Stood officers and crew. 

The father came on deck, — he gasped, 

" O God ! thy will be done ! " 
Then suddenly a rifle grasped, 

And aimed it at his son. 
" Jump far out, boy, into the wave ! 

Jump, or I fire!" he said; 
" That only chance thy life can save ! 

Jump! jump, boy!" — he obeyed. 

He sunk, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved, — 

And for the ship struck out; 
On board, we hailed the lad beloved, 

With many a manly shout. 
His father drew, in silent joy, 

Those wet arms round his neck, 

Then folded to his heart his boy, 

And fainted on the deck. — G. P. Morris. 
10* II 



114 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto 
of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. 
There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated 
picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, 
and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of 
the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the 
year 1630. 

"T* WAS morning in Seville ; and brightly beamed 
1 The early sunlight in one chamber there ; 

Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, 
Rich, varied beauty. 'T was the study where 

Murillo, the famed painter, came to share 
With young aspirants his long cherished art, 

To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, 
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, 
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. 

The pupils came, and glancing round, 
Mendez upon his canvas found, 
Not his own work of yesterday, 
But, glowing in the morning ray, 
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, 

It almost seemed that there were given 
To glow before his dazzled sight, 

Tints and expressions warm from heaven. 

'T was but a sketch — the Virgin's head — 
Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
Upon the mildly beaming face ; 

The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 
Had separate, yet blended grace — 

A poet's brightest dream was there ! 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 115 

Murillo entered, and amazed, 

On the mysterious painting gazed : 

" Whose work is this ? — speak, tell me ! — he 

Who to his aid such power can call," 
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, 

" Will yet be master of us all : 
Would I had done it ! — Ferdinand ! 
Isturitz ! Mendez ! — say, whose hand 
Among ye all ? " — With half-breathed sigh, 
Each pupil answered, " 'T was not I ! " 

" How came it then ? " impatiently 
Murillo cried ; " but we shall see, 
Ere long into this mystery. 
Sebastian ! " 

At the summons came 

A bright-eyed slave, 
Who trembled at the stern rebuke 

His master gave. 
For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
Murillo bade him now declare 
What rash intruder had been there, 
And threatened — if he did not tell 
The truth at once — the dungeon-cell. 

"Thou answerest not," Murillo said; 
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.) 

" Speak on ! " — At last he raised his head 
And murmured, " No one has been here." 
" 'T is false ! " Sebastian bent his knee, 

And clasped his hands imploringly, 
And said, " I swear it, none but me ! " 



n6 warren's select readings. 

" List ! " said his master. " I would know 
Who enters here ; there have been found 
Before, rough sketches strewn around, 

By whose bold hand, 't is yours to show ; 
See that to-night strict watch you keep, 
Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. 

If on to-morrow morn you fail 
To answer what I ask, 

The lash shall force you — do you hear? 
Hence ! to your daily task." 



'T was midnight in Seville ; and faintly shone 

From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray 
Within Murillo's study — all were gone 

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, 
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 

'T was shadowy gloom and breathless silence, save, 
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, 

One bright-eyed boy was there — Murillo's little 
slave. 

Almost a child — that boy had seen 

Not thrice five summers yet, 
But genius marked the lofty brow, 

O'er which his locks of jet 
Profusely curled ; his cheek's dark hue 
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, 
To Africa and Spain allied. 

"Alas ! what fate is mine ! " he said. 
" The lash, if I refuse to tell 



warren's select readings. 117 

Who sketched those figures — if I do, 

Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon-cell!" 
He breathed a prayer to heaven for aid ; 
It came — for soon, in slumber laid, 
He slept until the dawning day 
Shed on his humble couch its ray. 

" I '11 sleep no more ! " he cried ; " and now, 
Three hours of freedom I may gain 

Before my master comes ; for then 
I shall be but a slave again. 

Three blessed hours of freedom ! how 

Shall I employ them ? — ah ! e'en now 

The figure on that canvas traced 

Must be — yes, it must be effaced." 

He seized a brush — the morning light 

Gave to the head a softened glow ; 
Gazing enraptured on the sight, 

He cried, " Shall I efface it ? — No ! 
That breathing lip ! that beaming eye ! 
Efface them ? — I would rather die ! " 
The terror of the humble slave 

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow 
Of the high feelings Nature gave — 

Which only gifted spirits know. 

He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed 

His pencil had some magic power; 
The eye with deeper feeling beamed — 

Sebastian then forgot the hour ! 
Forgot his master, and the threat 

Of punishment still hanging o'er him; 



n8 warren's select readings. 

For, with each touch, new beauties met 
And mingled in the face before him. 

At length 'twas finished ; rapturously 
He gazed — could aught more beauteous be ! 
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, 
Then started — horror chilled his blood ! 
His master and the pupils all 

Were there e'en at his side ! 
The terror-stricken slave was mute — 

Mercy would be denied, 
E'en could he ask it — so he deemed, 
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 

Speechless, bewildered — for a space 
They gazed upon that perfect face, 

Each with an artist's joy; 
At length Murillo silence broke, 
And with affected sternness spoke — 

" Who is your master, boy ? " 
" You, Senor," said the trembling slave. 
" Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
Before that Virgin's head you drew ? " 
Again he answered, " Only you." 
" I gave you none," Murillo cried. 
" But I have heard," the boy replied, 

" What you to others said." 
"And more than heard," in kinder tone, 
The painter said ; " 't is plainly shown 

That you have profited." 

" What (to his pupils) is his meed ? 
Reward or punishment ? " 



warren's select readings. 119 

" Reward, Reward ! " they warmly cried 

(Sebastian's ear was bent 
To catch the sounds he scarce believed, 
But with imploring look received). 
" What shall it be ? " They spoke of gold 

And of a splendid dress ; 
But still unmoved Sebastian stood, 

Silent and motionless. 

"Speak!", said Murillo, kindly; "choose 

Your own reward — what shall it be ? 
Name what you wish, I '11 not refuse : 

Then speak at once and fearlessly." 
" Oh ! if I dared ! " — Sebastian knelt, 

And feelings he could not control 
(But feared to utter even then) 

With strong emotion shook his soul. 

" Courage ! " his master said, and each 
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, 
To sooth his overpow'ring dread. 
He scarcely heard, till some one said, 

" Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, 
Ask for your freedom ! " — At the word, 

The suppliant strove to raise his voice : 
At first but stifled sobs were heard, 
And then his prayer — breathed fervently - — 
" Oh ! master, make my father free ! " 
" Him and thyself, my noble boy ! " 

Warmly the painter cried ; 
Raising Sebastian from his feet, 

He pressed him to his side. 



120 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

" Thy talents rare, and filial love, 

E'en more have fairly won ; 
Still be thou mine by other bonds — 

My pupil and my son." 

Murillo knew, e'en when the words 

Of generous feeling passed his lips, 
Sebastian's talents soon must lead 

To fame that would his own eclipse ; 
And, constant to his purpose still, 

He joyed to see his pupil gain, 
Beneath his care, such matchless skill 

As made his name the pride of Spain. 

Susan Wilson. 



THE YOSEMITE VALLEY. 

THE Yosemite! as well interpret God in thirty-nine 
articles as portray it to you by word of mouth 
or pen. As well reproduce castle or cathedral by a 
stolen frieze or broken column, as this assemblage of 
natural wonder and beauty by photograph* or paint- 
ing. The overpowering sense of the sublime, of awful 
desolation, of transcending marvellousness and unex- 
pectedness, that swept over us, as we reined our horses 
sharply out of green forests and stood upon high jut- 
ting rock that overlooked this rolling, upheaving sea. 
of granite mountains, holding far down its rough lap 
this vale of beauty of meadow and grove and river, — 
such tide of feeling, such stoppage of ordinary emo- 
tions comes at rare intervals in life. It was the con- 
frontal of God, face to face, as in great danger, in 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 121 

solemn, sudden death. It was Niagara magnified. 
All that was mortal shrank back, all that was im- 
mortal swept to the front and bent down in awe. 

And here we have wandered and wondered and 
worshipped for four days. Under sunshine and 
shadow ; by rich mellow moonlight ; by stars opening 
double wide their eager eyes; through a peculiar 
August haze, delicate, glowing, creamy, yet hardly 
perceptible as a distinct element, — the New England 
Indian summer haze doubly refined, — by morning and 
evening twilight across camp-fires ; up from beds upon 
the ground; through all the watches of the night, have 
we seen these, the great natural wonders and beauties 
of this Western world. Indeed, it is not too much to 
say that no so limited space in all the known world 
offers such majestic and impressive beauty. Niagara 
alone divides honors with it in America. Only the 
whole of Switzerland can surpass it. No one scene in 
all the Alps can match this before me now in the 
things that mark the memory and impress all the 
scenes for beauty and sublimity. 

The one distinguishing feature is a double wall of 
perpendicular granite, rising from half a mile to a 
mile in height, and inclosing a valley not more than 
half a mile in width on the average, and from ten to 
fifteen miles in length. It is a fissure, a chasm, rather 
than a valley, in solid rock mountains ; there is not 
breadth enough in it for even one of its walls to lie 
down ; and yet it offers all the fertility, all the beauties 
of a rich valley. There is meadow with thick grass ; 
there are groves of pine and oak, the former exquisite 
in form and majestic in size, rising often to two hun- 
dred and two hundred and fifty feet; there are thickets 



122 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

of willow and birch, bay trees and dog-wood, and va- 
rious flowering shrubs; primrose and cowslip and golden 
rod and violet and painted cup, more delicate than 
Eastern skies can welcome, make gay garden of all the 
vacant fields now in August ; the aroma of mint, of pine 
and fir, of flower loads the air ; the fern family find a 
familiar home everywhere; and winding in and out 
among all flows the Merced River, so pure and trans- 
parent that you can hardly tell where the air leaves off 
and the water begins, rolling rapidly over polished 
stones or soft sands, or staying in wide, deep pools 
that invite the bather and the boat, and holding trout 
only less rich and dainty than the brook trout of New 
England. The soil, the trees, the shrubs, the grasses 
and the flowers of this little valley are much the same 
in general character and variety as those of your Con- 
necticut River valleys ; but they are richer in develop- 
ment and greater in numbers. They borrow of the 
mountain fecundity and sweetness ; and they are fed 
by summer rains as those of other California valleys 
rarely are. ... 

The one great conspicuous object of the valley is a 
massive, two-sided wall, standing out into and over the 
meadow, yellowish gray in color, and rising up into 
the air unbroken. Square, perpendicular, for full three- 
quarters of a mile. It bears in Spanish and Indian the 
name of the Great Jehovah, and it is easy to believe 
that it was an object of worship by the barbarians, as 
it is not difficult for civilization to recognize the Infi- 
nite in it, and impossible not to feel awed and humbled 
in its presence. 

In other places these mountain walls of rock take 
similar and only less majestic shapes ; while as fre- 



warren's select readings. 123 

quently they assume more poetical and fantastic forms. 
Here and there are grand massive domes, as perfect in 
shape as your State-house dome, and bigger than the 
entire of a dozen State-houses. The highest rock of 
the valley is a perfect half-dome, split sharp and square 
in the middle, and rising more than a mile, or near six 
thousand feet, over the little lake which perfectly mir- 
rors its majestic form at its foot. Perfect pyramids 
take their places in the wall ; then these pyramids 
come in families, and mount away one after and above 
the other, as " The Three Brothers," " The Cathedral 
Rocks," and "The Cathedral Spires" — uniting the 
great impressiveness, the beauty and the fantastic form 
of the Gothic architecture 

Over the sides of the walls pour streams of water out 
of narrower valleys; still above, and yet higher and far 
away, rise to twelve and thirteen thousand feet the cul- 
minating peaks of the Sierra Nevadas, with still visible 
fields of melting snows. All forms and shapes and 
colors of majesty and beauty cluster around this narrow 
spot. It seems created the home of all that is richest 
in inspiration for the heroic in life, for poetry, for paint- 
ing, for imaginative religion. 

The water- falls of the valley, though a lesser inci- 
dent in all its attractions, offer much that is marvellous 
and beautiful. 

In the main portion of the valley the Bridal Veil is 
the first conspicuous fall — now a dainty rivulet, start- 
ing over a precipice nine hundred feet high, but nearly 
all lost at once in delicate spray that sways and scat- 
ters in the light breeze, and fastens upon the wall, as 
sign of its being and its beauty, the fabled rainbow of 
promise. 



124 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Further up you see the Yosemite Fall, distin- 
guished for its height, the greatest of any yet dis- 
covered in the world. It is broken about two-thirds 
the way down its high wall of rock by projecting 
masses of the mountain, giving it several hundred feet 
of cataract passage ; but counting its whole fall, from 
top to bottom, it is two thousand six hundred feet in 
height, which is only fifteen times as high as Niagara 
Falls. 

The valley above this point separates into two or 
three narrow canons, and then are soon walled in by 
the uprising rocks ; at the end of one of these, the 
main branch of the river falls from its upper fountains 
over two walls, one three hundred and fifty feet high, 
and the other seven hundred, at points half a mile 
apart. The lower and shorter fall is called the Vernal, 
and pours down its whole height without a break, and 
forms at the base a most exquisite circular rainbow, 
one of the rarest phenomena in all nature. The upper 
fall bears the name of Nevada. This is the fall of falls ; 
there is no rival to it here in exquisite, various, fas- 
cinating beauty ; and Switzerland, which abounds in 
water-falls of like type, holds none of such peculiar 
charms. For half the distance between the two falls, 
the river runs swift over a solid plane of granite clean 
and smooth as ice, as if Neptune was on a grand slid- 
ing down-hill frolic. 

The name that has attached to this beautiful valley 
is both unique and euphonious — Yosemite ! It is 
Indian for Grizzly Bear, and probably was also the 
name of a noted chief who reigned over the Indians 
in this their favorite retreat. The foot of the white 



warren's select readings. 125 

man never trod its limits ; the eye of the white man 
never looked upon its sublime wonders till 185 1, when 
he came here in pursuit of the Indians, with whom the 
settlers were then at war. The red men had boasted 
that their retreat was secure ; that they had one spot 
which their enemies could never penetrate ; and here 
they would gather in and enjoy their spoils unmo- 
lested. But to the white man's revenge was now 
added the stimulus of curiosity ; and hither he found 
his way, and, coming to kill and exterminate, he was 
stayed, and will forever henceforth stay, to wonder and 
worship. — Samuel Boivles. 



TO THE DANDELION. 

DEAR common flower that grow'st beside the way, 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 
First pledge of blithesome May, 

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, 
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 
An Eldorado in the grass have found, 
Which not the rich earth's ample round 
May match in wealth, — thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow 
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 

Of age to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 

'T is the spring's largess, which she scatters now 

To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, 

Though most hearts never understand 
11 * 



126 warren's select readings. 

To take it at God's value, but pass by 
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and my Italy ; 

To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 
The eyes thou givest me 

Are in the heart, and heed not space or time. 
Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white lily's breezy tent, 
His fragrant Lybaris, than I, when first 
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass,— 
Of meadows where, in sun, the cattle graze, 

Where, as the breezes pass, 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 

Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue 

That from the distance sparkle through 

Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, 

Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; 

The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 
Who, from the dark old tree 

Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, 
And I, secure in childish piety, 
Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from heaven, which he could - bring 
Fresh every day to my untainted ears, 
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. \2J 

How like a prodigal doth nature seem, 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! 
Thou teachest me to deem 

More sacredly of every human heart, 
Since each reflects in joys its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show. 
Did we but pay the love we owe, 
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 
On all these living pages of God's book. — J. R. Lowell. 



FOREST LEAVES. 



1TAKE increasing delight, on these mountain ram- 
bles, in studying the symmetry and varieties of the 
forest leaves, to learn nature's wealth of resources as 
to graceful form, within narrow boundaries. An eye 
that is sensitive to the grace of curves and parabolas 
and oval swells, will marvel at the feast which a day's 
walk in the woods will supply from the trees, the 
grasses, and the weeds, in the varying outlines and 
notchings and veinings and edgings of leaves. They 
stand for the art of sculpture in botany, representing 
more the intellectual delight of nature in form, as the 
flowers express rather the companion art of painting. 
Leaves are the Greek, flowers the Italian phase, of the 
plastic genius that works through the Flora of the world. 
I do not know any kind of a museum that would 
attract me more than an exhaustive collection of 
leaves. Would it not be a privilege that would unseal, 
in some measure, the dullest eye, to look, in one day, 
over the whole scale of nature's foliage — from the 



128 warren's select readings. 

# • 

feathery spray of the moss to the tough texture on 
the Amazon lily's stem, that will float a burden of a 
hundred weight; from the bristles of the pine-tree to 
the Ceylon palm-leaf that will shield a family with its 
shade ? Would it not astonish us into something like 
reverent admiration, if we could see how the general 
geometry of verdure is broken into ten thousand 
patterns ; if we could sweep the gradations of nature's 
green, as it is distilled from arctic and temperate and 
tropic light, and varied by some shade on every leaf 
that grows ; if we could see all the textures of the 
drapery woven out of salts and water in botanic looms, 
from the softest silk of the corn to the broad tissue 
of the banana's stalk; if we could see displayed in 
wide masses all the hues with which autumn dyes the 
leaves of our own forests, as though every square mile 
had been steeped in the aerial juices of a gorgeous 
sunset ? To say nothing of the natural theology that 
is exhaled from these lungs of the vegetable world, 
would not the forms into which the foliage of the 
planet is broken, and the marvellous subtility of the 
tintings it reveals, make a museum of leaves as en- 
gaging a school for the education of the intellect as 
a collection of all vertebrae, or a representative con- 
servatory of the globe ? — Boston Transcript. 



OUR FOLKS. 



HI! Harry Holly! Halt, — and tell 
A fellow just a thing or two ; 
You 've had a furlough, been to see 
How all the folks in Jersey do. 



WARREN S. SELECT READINGS. I 20, 

It 's months ago since I was there, — 

I and a bullet from Fair Oaks. 
When you were home, — old comrade, say, 

Did you see any of our folks ? 

" You did ? Shake hands, — O, ain't I glad ; 

For if I do look grim and rough, 

I 've got some feelin' 

People think 

A soldier's heart is mighty tough ; 
But, Harry, when the bullets fly, 

And hot saltpetre flames and smokes, 
While whole battalions lie afield, 

One's apt to think about his folks. 

" And so you saw them — when ? and where ? 

The old man — is he hearty yet ? 
And mother — does she fade at all ? 

Or does she seem to pine and fret 
For me ? And Sis ? — has she grown tall ? 

And did you see her friend — you know 

That Annie Moss 

(How this pipe chokes !) 
Where did you see her ? — tell me, Hal, 

A lot of news about our folks. 

" You saw them in the church — yet say ; 

It 's likely, for they 're always there. 
Not Sunday? no? A funeral? Who? 

Who, Harry ? how you shake and stare ! 
All well, you say, and all were out. 

What ails you, Hal ? Is this a hoax ? 
I 



130 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Why don't you tell me, like a man, 
What is the matter with our folks?" 

" I said all well, old comrade, true ; 

I say all well, for He knows best 
Who takes the young ones in his arms, 

Before the sun goes to the west, 
The axe-man Death deals right and left, 

And flowers fall as well as oaks; 

And so 

Fair Annie blooms no more ! 

And that 's the matter with your folks. 

" See, this long curl was kept for you ; 

And this white blossom from her breast; 
And here — your sister Bessie wrote 

A letter, telling all the rest. 
Bear up, old friend." 

Nobody speaks; 

Only the old camp- raven croaks, 
And soldiers whisper : 

" Boys, be still ; 

There 's some bad news from Granger's folks." 

He turns his back — the only foe 

That ever saw it — on this grief, 
And, as men will, keeps down the tears 

Kind nature sends to woe's relief. 
Then answers he : 

"Ah, Hal, I'll try; 

But in my throat there 's something chokes, 
Because you see, I 've thought so long 

To count her in among our folks. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I3I 

I s'pose she must be happy now, 

But still I will keep thinking too, 
I could have kept all trouble off 

By being tender, kind, and true. 
But maybe not. She 's safe up there, 

And when the Hand deals other strokes, 
She '11 stand by Heaven's gate I know, 

And wait to welcome in our folks." 

Ethel Lynn. 



THE BLACK HORSE AND HIS RIDER. 

IT was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates 
stood before his tent, gazing steadfastly upon the two 
armies now arrayed in order of battle. It was a clear, 
bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. 
The sky was cloudless ; the foliage of the woods 
scarce tinged with purple and gold ; the buckwheat 

1 in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But 

I the tread of legions shook the ground; from every 
bush shot the glimmer of the rifle-barrel ; on every 

1 hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. Gates was sad 
and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the 

! two armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder 
shook the ground, and a chorus of shouts and groans 
yelled along the darkened air. The play of death had 
begun. The two flags — this of the stars, that of the 
red cross — tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the 
sky was clouded with leaden folds, and the earth 
throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty heart. 

Suddenly Gates and his officers were startled. 
Along the height on which they stood came a rider, 



132 WARRENS SELECT READINGS. 

upon a black horse, rushing toward the distant battle. 
There was something in the appearance of this horse 
and his rider that struck them with surprise Look ! 
he draws his sword ; the sharp blade quivers through 
the air ; he points to the distant battle, and lo ! he is 
gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout 
echoes over the plains. Wherever the fight is thick- 
est, there, through intervals of cannon-smoke, you may 
see riding madly forward that strange soldier, mounted 
on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with 
face red with British blood he waves his sword and 
shouts to his legions. Now you may see him fighting 
in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is 
away off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that 
steep cliff Is it not a magnificent sight, to see that 
strange soldier and that noble black horse dashing, 
like a meteor, down the long columns of battle ? 

Let us look for a moment into those clouds of 
battle. Over this thick hedge bursts a band of Amer- 
ican militiamen, their rude farmer coats stained with 
blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they 
flee before that company of red-coat hirelings, who 
come rushing forward, their solid front of bayonets 
gleaming in the battle light. In this moment of their 
flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The 
unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, 
right in the path of these broad-shouldered militiamen. 
" Now, cowards ! advance another step and I '11 strike 
you to the heart ! " shouts the unknown, extending a 
pistol in either hand. " What ! are you Americans, 
men, and fly before British soldiers ? Back again, and 
face them once more, or I myself will ride you down." 
This appeal was not without its effect. Their leader 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I33 

turns, his comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his 
example. In one line, but thirty men in all, they con- 
front thirty sharp bayonets. The British advance. 
" Now upon the rebels, charge ! " shouts the red-coat 
officer. They spring forward at the same bound. 
Look ! their bayonets almost touch the muzzles of 
their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown 
rider was heard : " Now let them have it ! Fire ! " A 
sound is heard, a smoke is seen, twenty Britons are 
down, some writhing in death, some crawling along 
the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remain- 
ing ten start back. " Club your rifles and charge them 
home ! " shouts the unknown. That black horse 
springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a 
confused conflict — a cry for quarter, and a vision of 
twenty farmers grouped around the rider of the black 
horse, greeting him with cheers. 

Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black 
horse and his rider went, there followed victory. At 
last, toward the setting of the sun, the crisis of the 
conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus's 
Heights, must be won, or the American cause is lost ! 
That cliff is too steep — that death is too certain. The 
officers cannot persuade the men to advance. The 
Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that 
iron man among iron men, leans on his rifle and de- 
spairs of the field. But look yonder ! In this moment, 
when all is dismay and horror, here crashing on, comes 
the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon 
his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and 
dust and blood ; he lays his hand upon that bold rifle- 
man's shoulder, and as though living fire had been 
poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts to- 
12 



134 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

ward the rock. And now look! now hold your 
breath, as that black steed crashes up that steep cliff. 
That steed quivers ! he totters ! he falls ! No ! no ! 
Still on, still up the cliff, still on toward the fortress. 
The rider turns his face and shouts, " Come on, men 
of Quebec ! come on ! " That call is needless. Already 
the bold riflemen are on the rock. Now British can- 
non pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens and 
twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout 
your battle-cry if you can ! For look ! there in the 
gate of the fortress, as the smoke clears away, stands 
the black horse and his rider. That steed falls dead, 
pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the 
British cry for quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts 
afar to Horatio Gates waiting yonder in his tent, 
" Saratoga is won ! " As that cry goes up to heaven, 
he falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. 

Who was the rider of the black horse ? Do you not 
guess his name ? Then bend down and gaze on that 
shattered limb, and you will see that it bears the 
mark of a former wound. That wound was received 
in the storming of Quebec. That rider of the black 
horse was — Benedict Arnold. Charles Sheppard. 



MABEL MARTIN. 



IT was the pleasant harvest-time, 
When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
And garrets bend beneath their load, 
And the old swallow-haunted barns — 
Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 
Through which the moted sunlight streams — 
Are filled with summer's ripened stores, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I35 

Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
From their low scaffolds to their eaves. 

On Esek Harden's oaken floor, 

With many an autumn threshing worn, 
Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 

And thither came young men and maids, 
Beneath a moon that, large and low, 
Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 

They took their places; some by chance, 
And others by a merry voice 
Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 

How pleasantly the rising moon, 

Between the shadow of the mows, 

Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! — 
On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, 

On girlhood with its solid curves 

Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! 
And jests went round, and laughs that made 

The house-dog answer with his howl, 

And kept astir the barn-yard fowl. 

But still the sweetest voice was mute 

That river-valley ever heard 

From lip of maid or throat of bird; 
For Mabel Martin sat apart, 

And let the hay-mow's shadow fall 

Upon the loveliest face of all. 
She sat apart, as one forbid, 

Who knew that none would condescend 

To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 



136 warren's select readings. 

The seasons scarce had gone their round, 
Since curious thousands thronged to see 
Her mother on the gallows-tree. 

Few questioned of the sorrowing child, 
Or when they saw the mother die, 
Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 

Poor Mabel from her mother's grave 
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, 
And wrestled with her fate alone. 

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 

And still her weary wheel went round, 
Day after day, with no relief: 
Small leisure have the poor for grief. 

So in the shadow Mabel sits; 

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, 
Her smile is sadder than her tears. 

But cruel eyes have found her out, 
And cruel lips repeat her name, 
And taunt her with her mother's shame. 

She answered not with railing words, 
But drew her apron o'er her face, 
And, sobbing, glided from the place. 

And only pausing at the door, 

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
Of one who, in her better days, 

Had been her warm and steady friend, 
Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
Even Esek Harden half afraid. 



warren's select readings. 137 

He felt that mute appeal of tears, 
And, starting, with an angry frown 
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 

" Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
" This passes harmless mirth or jest ; 
I brook no insult to my guest. 

"She is indeed her mother's child; 
But God's sweet pity ministers 
Unto no whiter soul than hers. 

Let Goody Martin rest in peace; 
I never knew her harm a fly, 
And witch or not, God knows, — not I. 

I know who swore her life away; 
And, as God lives, I 'd not condemn 
An Indian dog on word of them." 

The broadest lands in all the town, 
The skill to guide, the power to awe, 
Were Harden's ; and his word was law. 

None dared withstand him to his face, 
But one sly maiden spake aside : 
" The little witch is evil-eyed ! 

Her mother only killed a cow, 
Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; 
But she, forsooth, must charm a man ! " 

Poor Mabel, in her lonely home, 
Sat by the window's narrow pane, 
White in the moonlight's silver rain. 

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
And, in her old and simple way, 
To teach her bitter heart to pray. 



138 warren's select readings. 

Poor child ! the prayer, begun in faith, 
Grew to a low, despairing cry 
Of utter misery : 4< Let me die ! 

Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes, 
And hide me where the cruel speech 
And mocking finger may not reach ! 



" I dare not breathe my mother's name : 
A daughter's right I dare not crave 
To weep above her unblest grave! 

Let me not live until my heart, 
With few to pity, and with none 
To love me, hardens into stone. 

O God! have mercy on Thy child, 

Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small, 
And take me ere I lose it all." 

A shadow on the moonlight fell, 

And murmuring wind and wave became 
A voice whose burden was her name. 

Had then God heard her? Had He sent 
His angel down? In flesh and blood, 
Before her Esek Harden stood ! 

He laid his hand upon her arm : 

" Dear Mabel, this no more shall be ; 
Who scoffs at you, must scoff at me. 

You know rough Esek Harden well ; 
And if he seems no suitor gay, 
And if his hair is mixed with gray, 

The maiden grown shall never find 

His heart- less warm than when she smiled 
Upon his knees a little child ! " 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 1 39 

Her tears of grief were tears of joy, 

As folded in his strong embrace, 

She looked in Esek Harden's face. 
" O truest friend of all ! " she said ; 

" God bless you for your kindly thought, 

And make me worthy of my lot ! " 

He led her through his dewy fields, 

To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 
And through the doors the huskers showed. 

" Good friends and neighbors ! " Esek said, 
" I 'm weary of this lonely life ; 
In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 

" She greets you kindly, one and all ; 

The past is past, and all offence 

Falls harmless from her innocence. 
Henceforth she stands no more alone : 

You know what Esek Harden is ; — 

He brooks no wrong to him or his." 

Now let the merriest tales be told, 

And let the sweetest songs be sung, 

That ever made the old heart young ! 
For now the lost has found a home 

And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 

As all the household joys return ! 

Oh, pleasantly the harvest moon, 

Between the shadow of the mows, 

Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! 
On Mabel's curls of golden hair, 

On Esek's shaggy strength, it fell ; 

And the wind whispered, " It is well ! " 

Abridged. J. G. Whittier. 



140 warren's select readings. 

SCENE FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

Scene II. — Belmont. A Room in Portia s House. 

Enter Portia and Nerissa. 

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is 
aweary of this great world. 

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries 
were in the same abundance as your good fortunes 
are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that 
surfeit with too much, as they that starve with noth- 
ing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated 
in the mean ; superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, 
but competency lives longer. 

Por. Good sentences and well pronounced. 

Ner. They would be better if well followed. 

Por. If to do were as easy as to know what were 
good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor 
men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine 
that follows his own instructions. I can easier teach 
twenty what were good to be done than be one of the 
twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may 
devise laws for the blood ; but a hot temper leaps over 
a cold decree ; such a hare is madness, the youth, to 
skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. 
But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me 
a husband. O me ! the word choose ! I may neither 
choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike ; so 
is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a 
dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot 
choose one, nor refuse none ? 

Ner. Your father was ever virtuous ; and holy men 
at their death have good inspirations ; therefore, the 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I4I 

lottery that he hath devised in these three chests of 
gold, silver, and lead (whereof who chooses his mean- 
ing, chooses you), will, no doubt, never be chosen by 
any rightly, but one whom you shall rightly love. 
But what warmth is there in your affection towards 
any of these princely suitors that are already come ? 

Por. I pray thee overname them ; and as thou 
namest them, I will describe them ; and according to 
my description, level at my affection. 

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 

Por. Ay, that 's a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing 
but talk of his horse ; and he makes it a great appro- 
priation to his own good parts, that he can shoe him 
himself; I am much afraid he would house me in a 
smithy. 

Ner. Then, is there the county Palatine. 

Por. He doth nothing but frown ; as who should 
say, "An you will not have me choose:" he hears 
merry tales and smiles not ; I fear he will prove the 
weeping philosopher, when he grows old, being so 
full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather 
be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth, 
than to either of these. God defend me from these 
two ! 

Ner. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le 
Bon? 

Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for 
a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker; 
but, he ! why he hath a horse better than the Neapol- 
itan's ; a better bad habit of frowning than the count 
Palatine. He is every man in no man : if a throstle 
sing, he falls straight a capering ; he will fence with 
his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should 



142 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I 
would forgive him ; for if he love me to madness, I 
shall never requite him. 

Ner. What say you then to Faulconbridge, the 
young baron of England ? 

Por. You know I say nothing to him, for he under- 
stands not me nor I him; he hath neither Latin, 
French, nor Italian; and you will come into the court 
and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the Eng- 
lish. He is a proper man's picture ; but, alas ! who 
can converse with a dumb show? how oddly he is 
suited ! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his 
round-hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his 
behavior everywhere. 

Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neigh- 
bor ? 

Por. That he hath a neighborly charity in him, for 
he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and 
swore he would pay him again when he was able. I 
think the Frenchman became his surety, and sealed 
under for another. 

Ner. How like you the young German, the Duke of 
Saxony's nephew ? 

Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober ; 
and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk ; 
when he is best, he is a little worse than a man; and 
when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An 
the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift 
to go without him. 

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the 
right casket, you would refuse to perform your father's 
will, if you should refuse to accept him. 

Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I43 

a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket : 
for, if the devil be within, and that temptation without, 
I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, 
ere I will be married to a sponge. 

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of 
these lords ; they have acquainted me with their de- 
terminations; which is, indeed, to return to their home 
and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may 
be won by some other sort than your father's imposi- 
tion, depending on the caskets. 

Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as 
chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner 
of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers 
are so reasonable ; for there is not one among them 
but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant 
them a fair departure. 

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's 
time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came 
hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat ? 

Por. Yes, yes ; it was Bassanio ; as I think, so he 
was called. 

Ner. True, madam ; he, of all the men that ever my 
foolish eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair 
lady. 

Por. I remember him well, and I remember him 
worthy of thy praise. How now! What news? 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to 
take their leave ; and there is a forerunner come from 
a fifth, the prince of Morocco, who brings word, the 
prince, his master, will be here to-night. 

Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good 






144 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

a heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should 
be glad of his approach ; if he have the condition of 
a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he 
should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. 

Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon 
one wooer, another knocks at the door. — Exeunt. 

Shakespeare. 



BENNIE AND BLOSSOM. 

IT was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen 
took the letter, but could not break the envelope, 
on account of his trembling fingers, and held it towards 
Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. 
The minister opened it, and read as follows : 
" Dear Father : — When this reaches you I shall 
be in eternity. You know I promised Jemmie Carr's 
mother I would look after her boy ; and, when he fell 
sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong 
when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day 
before that night I carried all his luggage, besides my 
own, on our march. Towards night we went in on 
double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel 
very heavy, everybody else was tired too ; and as 
for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and 
then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all 
tired out when we came into camp, and then it was 
Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I wo?t/d take his place ; 
but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept 
awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but I did 
not know it until — well, until it was too late." 

" God be thanked ! " interrupted Mr. Owen, rever- 



145 

ently. " I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep care- 
lessly at his post." 

" They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, 
given to me by circumstances — ' time to write to you,' 
our good colonel says. Forgive him, father ; he only 
does his duty ; he would gladly save me if he could ; 
and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The 
poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg 
and cry to let him die in my stead. 

" I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. 
Comfort them, father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy 
should, and that, when the war is over, they will not 
be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help 
me; it is very hard to bear! Good-by, father! God 
seems near and dear to me ; not at all as if he wished 
me to perish forever, but as if he felt sorry for his poor, 
sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be 
with him and my Saviour in a better — better life." 

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," 
he said solemnly, "Amen." 

" To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows 
all coming home from pasture, and precious little 
Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me ; but 
I shall never, never come ! God bless you all ! For- 
give your poor Bennie." 

Late that night the door of the "back stoop" 
opened softly, and a little figure glided out and down 
the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She 
seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head 
neither to the right nor the left, looking only now and 
then to Heaven, and folding her hands as if in prayer. 

Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the 
Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train. 
13 K 



146 warren's select readings. 

She was on her way to Washington, to ask President 
Lincoln for her brother's life. She had stolen away, 
leaving only a note to tell where and why she had 
gone. 

In an incredibly short time Blossom reached the 
Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. 

The President had but just seated himself to his 
morning's task of overlooking and signing important 
papers, when, without one word of announcement, the 
door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes 
and folded hands, stood before him. 

" Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful 
tones, " what do you want, so bright and early in the 
morning ? " 

" Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom. 

" Bennie ? Who is Bennie ? " 

" My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him 
for sleeping at his post." 

" Oh, yes ; " and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the 
papers before him. " I remember. It was a fatal 
sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special 
danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for 
his culpable negligence." 

"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but 
poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. 
He did the work of two, sir; and it was Jemmie's night, 
not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never 
thought about himself, that he was tired too." 

"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do 
not understand," and the kind man caught eagerly, as 
ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offence. 

Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on 
her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I47 

towards his. How tall he seemed ! and he was President 
of the United States, too. A dim thought of this kind 
passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she 
told her simple and straightforward story, and handed 
Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. 

He read it carefully ; then, taking up his pen, wrote 
a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. 

Blossom heard this order given : "Send this dispatch 
at once!' 

The President then turned to the girl and said, " Go 
home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who 
could approve his country's sentence, even when it 
took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lin- 
coln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go 
back, or — wait until to-morrow; Bennie will need a 
change after he has so bravely faced death ; he shall 
go with you." 

" God bless you, sir ! " said Blossom ; and who shall 
doubt that God heard and registered the request ? 

Two days after this interview, the young soldier 
came to the White House with his little sister. He 
was called into the President's private room, and a 
strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then 
said : " The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's 
baggage, and die for the act so uncomplainingly, de- 
serves well of his country." Then Bennie and Blos- 
som took their way to their Green Mountain home. 

A crowd gathered at the Mill Depot to welcome 
them back ; and as farmer Owen's hand grasped that 
of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was 
heard to say fervently, "The Lord be praised!' 

From the "Nezv York Observer!' 



148 warren's select readings. 

THE HORSEBACK RIDE. 

WHEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, 
When I faint 'neath its burdens and shrink from 

its strife ; 
When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking my 

taste, 
And its fairest scenes seem but a desolate waste, 
Then come ye not near me, my sad heart to cheer, 
With friendship's soft accents, or sympathy's tear, — 
No pity I ask, and no counsel I need. 
But bring me, O bring me, my gallant young steed, 
With his high-arched neck, and his nostrils spread 

wide, 
His eyes full of fire, and his step full of pride ! 
As I spring to his back, as I seize the strong rein, 
The strength of my spirit returneth again ! 
The bonds are all broken that fettered my mind, 
And my cares borne away on the wings of the wind ; 
My pride lifts its head, for a moment bowed down, 
And the queen in my nature now puts on her crown ! 

Now we 're off, like the winds to the plains whence 

they came, 
And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame ! 
On, on speeds my courser, scarce printing the sod, 
Scarce crushing a daisy to mark where he trod ! 
On, on like a deer, when the hound's early bay 
Awakes the wild echoes, away and away ! 
Still faster, still farther, he leaps at my cheer, 
Till the rush of the startled air whirs in my ear ! 
Now 'long a clear rivulet lieth his track, — 
See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back! 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I49 



Now a glen, dark as midnight, — what matter ? — we '11 

down, 
Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us 

frown ! 
The thick branches shake as we 're hurrying through, 
And deck us with spangles of silvery dew ! 

What a wild thought of triumph, that this girlish hand 
Such a steed in the might of his strength may com- 
mand ! 
What a glorious creature ! Ah ! glance at him now, 
As I check him awhile on this green hillock's brow ! 
How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh, 
And paws the firm earth in his proud, stately play ! 
Hurrah ! off again, dashing on as in ire, 
Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire ! 
Ho ! a ditch ! — Shall we pause ? No ; the bold leap 

we dare, 
Like a swift-winged arrow we rush through the air ! 
Oh, not all the pleasures that poets may praise, 
Not the 'wildering waltz in the ball-room's blaze, 
Nor the chivalrous joust, nor the daring race, 
Nor the swift regatta, nor merry chase, 
Nor the sail high heaving the waters o'er, 
Nor the rural dance on the moonlight shore, 
Can the wild and thrilling joy exceed 
Of a fearless leap on a fiery steed. — Grace Greenwood. 
13* 



I50 WARREN S SELEICT READINGS. 

THE MONSTER CANNON. 

THEY heard a noise unlike anything usually heard. 
The cry and the noise came from inside the vessel. 
One of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four 
pounder, had become detached. 

This, perhaps, is the most formidable of ocean 
events. Nothing more terrible can happen to a war 
vessel, at sea and under full sail. 

A cannon which breaks its moorings becomes ab- 
ruptly some indescribable, supernatural beast. It is a 
machine which transforms itself into a monster. This 
mass runs on its wheels, like billiard-balls, inclines 
with the rolling, plunges with the pitching, goes, 
comes, stops, seems to meditate, resumes its course, 
shoots from one end of the ship to the other like an 
arrow, whirls, steals away, evades, prances, strikes, 
breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a ram which capri- 
ciously assails a wall. Add this — the ram is of iron, 
the wall is of wood. This furious bulk has the leaps 
of the panther, the weight of the elephant, the agility 
of the mouse, the pertinacity of the axe, the unexpect- 
edness of the surge, the rapidity of lightning, the 
silence of the sepulchre. It weighs ten thousand 
pounds, and it rebounds like a child's ball. Its whirl- 
ings are suddenly cut at right angles. What is to be 
done ? How shall an end be put to this ? A tempest 
ceases, a cyclone passes, a wind goes down, a broken 
mast is replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire put out ; but 
what shall be done with this enormous brute of bronze ? 
How try to secure it ? You can reason with a bull- 
dog, astonish a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger, 
soften a lion ; no resource with such a monster as a 



warren's select readings. 151 

loose cannon. You cannot kill it: it is dead; and at 
the same time it lives with a sinister life which comes 
from the infinite. It is moved by the ship, which is 
moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This 
exterminator is a plaything. The horrible cannon 
struggles, advances, retreats, strikes to the right, strikes 
to theleft, flees, passes, disconcerts expectation, grinds 
obstacles, crushes men like flies. 

The carronade, hurled by the pitching, made havoc 
in the group of men, crushing four at the first blow ; 
then receding and brought back by the rolling, it cut 
a fifth unfortunate man in two, and dashed against the 
larboard side a piece of the battery which it dis- 
mounted. Then came the cry of distress which had 
been heard. All the men rushed towards the ladder. 
The battery was emptied in a twinkling of an eye. 

The captain and lieutenant, although both intrepid 
men, had halted at the head of the ladder, and dumb, 
pale, hesitating, looked down into the lower deck. 
Some one pushed them to one side with his elbow and 
descended. 

It was an old man, a passenger. 

Once at the foot of the ladder, he stood still. 

Hither and thither along the lower deck came the 
cannon. One might have thought it the living chariot 
of the Apocalypse. 

The four whe?ls passed and repassed over the dead 
men, cutting, carving, and slashing them, and of the 
five corpses made twenty fragments which rolled 
across the battery ; the lifeless heads seemed to cry 
out; streams of blood wreathed on the floor following 
the rolling of the ship. The ceiling, damaged in 
several places, commenced to open a little. All the 
vessel was filled with a monstrous noise. 



152 warren's select readings. 

The captain promptly regained his presence of mind, 
and caused to be thrown into the lower deck all that 
could allay and fetter the unbridled course of the can- 
non,— mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, rolls of 
cordage, bags of equipments, and bales of counterfeit 
assignats, of which the corvette had a full cargo. 

But of what avail these rags ? Nobody darfng to 
go down and place them properly, in a few minutes 
they were lint. 

There was just sea enough to make the accident as 
complete as possible. A tempest would have been 
desirable ; it might have thrown the cannon upside 
down, and, once the four wheels were in the air, it 
could have been mastered. As it was, the havoc in- 
creased. There were chafings and even fractures in 
the masts, which, jointed into the frame of the keel, 
go through the floors of vessels and are like great 
round pillars. Under the convulsive blows of the can- 
non, the foremast had cracked, the main-mast itself 
was cut. The battery was disjointed. Ten pieces out 
of the thirty were hors de combat ; the breaches in the 
sides multiplied, and the corvette commenced to take 
in water. 

The old passenger who had gone down to the lower 
deck seemed a man of stone at the bottom of the 
ladder. He cast a severe look on the devastation. He 
did not stir. It seemed impossible to take a step in 
the battery. 

They must perish, or cut short the disaster ; some- 
thing must be done, but what? 

What a combatant that carronade was ! 

That frightful maniac must be stopped. 

That lightning must be averted. 



warren's select readings. 153 

That thunder-bolt must be conquered. 

The captain said to the lieutenant : 

V Do you believe in God, Chevalier ? " 

" Yes. No. Sometimes." 

" In the tempest ? " 

" Yes. And in moments like these." 

" In reality, God only can rid us of this trouble." 

Outside, the billows beating the vessel answered the 
blows of the cannon. 

It was like two hammers alternating. 

All of a sudden, in that kind of unapproachable cir- 
cuit wherein the escaped cannon bounded, a man ap- 
peared, with an iron bar in his hand. It was the 
author of the catastrophe, the chief gunner, guilty of 
negligence and the cause of the accident, the master 
of the carronade. Having done the harm, he wished 
to repair it. He had grasped a handspike in one 
hand, some gun-tackle with a slip knot in the other, 
and jumped upon the lower deck. 

Then a wild exploit commenced ; a Titanic specta- 
1 cle; the combat of the gun with the gunner; the battle 
of matter and intelligence ; the duel of the animate 
and the inanimate. 

The man had posted himself in a corner, and with 
his bar and rope in his two fists, leaning against one 
of the riders, standing firmly on his legs which seemed 
like two pillars of steel, livid, calm, tragic, as though 
rooted to the floor, he waited. 

He was waiting for the cannon to pass near him. 

The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him 
that it must know him. He had lived for some time 
with it. How many times he had thrust his hand 
into its jaws ! It was his tamed monster. He com- 
menced talking to it as he would to his dog. 



154 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

" Come," said he. He loved it maybe. 

He seemed to wish that it would come towards him. 

But to come towards him would be to come upon 
him. And then he was lost. How avoid the crush ? 
That was the question. All looked upon the scene, 
terrified. 

Not a breast breathed freely, except, perhaps, that 
of the old man who alone was on the lower deck with 
the two combatants, a sinister witness. 

He might himself be crushed by the piece. He 
stirred not. 

Under them the blinded sea directed the combat. 

At the moment when, accepting this dreadful hand- 
to-hand encounter, the gunner challenged the cannon, 
a chance rolling of the sea kept it immovable as if 
stupefied. " Come, then ! " said the man. It seemed 
to listen. 

Suddenly it jumped towards him. The man escaped 
the shock. 

The struggle began. Struggle unheard of. The 
fragile wrestling with the invulnerable. The monster 
of flesh attacking the brazen beast. On one side 
force, on the other a soul. 

All this was passing in a shadow. It was like the 
indistinct vision of a prodigy. 

A soul ! a strange thing ! one would have thought 
the cannon had one also, but a soul of hate and rage. 
This sightless thing seemed to have eyes. The mon- 
ster appeared to watch the man. There was — one 
would have thought so, at least — cunning in this 
mass. It also chose its moment. It was a kind of 
gigantic insect of iron, having, or seeming to have, 
the will of a demon. At times this colossal grass- 



warren's select readings. 155 

hopper would strike the low ceiling of the battery, 
then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger on its 
four claws, and commence again to dart upon the 
man. He, supple, agile, adroit, writhed like an adder 
in guarding against all these lightning-like move- 
ments. He avoided encounters, but the blows he 
shunned were received by the vessel, and continued 
to demolish it. 

An end of broken chain had remained hanging to 
the carronade. One end of it was fastened to the car- 
riage. The other, free, turned desperately around the 
cannon and exaggerated all its shocks. The chain, 
multiplying the blows of the ram by its lashings, 
caused a terrible whirl around the cannon, — an iron 
whip in a fist of brass, — and complicated the combat. 

Yet the man struggled. At times, even, it was the 
man who attacked the cannon ; he crouched along the 
side, holding his bar and his rope; and the cannon 
seemed to understand, and, as though divining a snare, 
fled. The man, formidable, pursued it. 

Such things cannot last long. The cannon seemed 
to say all at once: " Come! there must be an end to 
this ! " and it stopped. The approach of the denoue- 
ment was felt. The cannon, as in suspense, seemed 
to have, or did have, — because to all it was like a living 
thing,— a ferocious premeditation. Suddenly, it precipi- 
tated itself on the gunner. The gunner drew to one 
side, let it pass, and called to it, laughing: "Try again." 
The cannon, as though furious, broke a carronade to 
larboard ; then, seized again by the invisible sling 
which held it, bounded to starboard towards the man, 
who escaped. Three carronades sunk down under 
the pressure of the cannon; then, as though blind, and 



156 warren's select readings. 

knowing no longer what it was doing, it turned its 
back to the man, rolled backward and forward, put the 
stem out of order, and made a breach in the wall of 
the prow. The man had taken refuge at the foot of 
the ladder, a few steps from the old man who was 
present. The gunner held his handspike at rest. The 
cannon seemed to perceive him, and without taking 
the trouble to turn around, fell back on the man with 
the promptness of an axe-stroke. The man if driven 
against the side was lost. All the crew gave a cry. 

But the old passenger, till then immovable, sprang 
forward, more rapidly than all those wild rapidities. 
He had seized a bale of false assignats, and, at the 
risk of being crushed, he had succeeded in throwing 
it between the wheels of the cannon. This decisive 
and perilous movement could not have been executed 
with more promptness and precision by a man accus- 
tomed to all the manoeuvres of sea- gunnery. 

The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble stops 
a bulk ; a branch of a tree diverts an avalanche. The 
cannon stumbled. The gunner in his turn, taking ad- 
vantange of this terrible juncture, plunged his iron bar 
between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The 
cannon stopped. It leaned forward. The man using 
his bar as a lever, made it rock. The heavy mass 
turned over, with the noise of a bell tumbling down, 
and the man, rushing headlong, trickling with sweat, 
attached the slip-knot of the gun-tackle to the bronze 
neck of the conquered monster. 

It was finished. The man had vanquished. The 
ant had subdued the mastodon; the pigmy had made 
a prisoner of the thunderbolt. — Victor Hugo. 



warren's select readings. 157 

"GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA." 

THE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her 
chubby hand, and looked down the stairs : " Good- 
night, papa ; Jessie see you in the morning." 

It came to be a settled thing, and every evening, 
as -the mother slipped the white night-gown over the 
plump shoulders, the little one stopped on the stairs 
and sang out, " Good-night, papa;" and as the father 
heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and 
taking the cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, 
while the mother's eyes filled, and a swift prayer went 
up, for, strange to say, this man, who loved his child 
with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one 
fault to mar his manliness. From his youth he loved 
the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and with a fascination 
of manner that won him friends, he could not resist 
when surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his 
home was darkened, the heart of his wife bruised and 
bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 

Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby 
crept into the avenues of the father's heart, keeping 
him closer to his home, but still the fatal cup was in 
his hand. 

With unutterable tenderness, God saw there was no 
other way ; this father was dear to him, the purchase 
of his Son; he could not see him perish, and, calling 
a swift messenger, he said, " Speed thee to earth and 
bring the babe." 

" Good-night, papa," sounded from the stairs. What 
was there in the voice ? was it the echo of the man- 
date, "Bring me the babe"? — a silvery plaintive 
sound, a lingering music that touched the father's 
14 



158 warren's select readings. 

heart, as when a cloud crosses the sun. " Good-night, 
my darling ; " but his lips quivered and his broad brow 
grew pale. " Is Jessie sick, mother ? Her cheeks are 
flushed, and her eyes have a strange light." 

" Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the 
flushed brow ; " she may have played too much. Pet 
is not sick ? " 

" Jessie tired, mamma. Good-night, papa; Jessie 
see you in the morning." 

" That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as 
she took the small hand. Another kiss, and the father 
turned away ; but his heart was not satisfied. 

Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie was restless 
and could not sleep. "Tell me a story, mamma;" 
and the mother told of the blessed babe that Mary 
cradled, following along the story till the child had 
grown to walk and play. The blue, wide-open eyes 
filled with a strange light, as though she saw and 
comprehended more than the mother knew. 

That night the father did not visit the saloon ; toss- 
ing on his bed, starting from a feverish sleep and 
bending over the crib, the long weary hours passed. 
Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with 
the fever. 

" Keep her quiet," the doctor said ; " a few days of 
good nursing, and she will be all right." 

Words easy said ; but the father saw a look on the 
sweet face such as he had never seen before. He 
knew the message was at the door. 

Night came. "Jessie is sick ; can't say good-night, 
papa ; " and the little clasping fingers clung to the 
father's hand. 

" O God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear it! " was 
wrung from his suffering heart. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I59 

Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her watch- 
ing. With her babe cradled in her arms her heart 
was slow to take in the truth, doing her best to solace 
the father's heart : "A light case ! the doctor says, 
• Pet will soon be well.' " 

Calmly, as one who knows his doom, the father laid 
his hand upon the hot brow, looked into the eyes even 
then covered with the film of death, and with all the 
strength of his manhood cried, " Spare her, O God ! 
spare my child, and I will follow thee." 

With a last painful effort the parched lips opened : 
"Jessie's too sick; can't say good-night, papa — in 
the morning." There was a convulsive shudder, and 
the clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the messenger 
had taken the child. 

Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands by the 
side of her father's couch ; her blue embroidered dress 
and white hat hang in his closet ; her boots with the 
print of the feet just as she last wore them, as sacred 
in his eyes as they are in the mother's. Not dead, 
but merely risen to a higher life ; while, sounding 
down from the upper stairs, " Good-night, papa ; Jessie 
see you in the morning," has been the means of win- 
ning to a better way one who had shown himself deaf 
to every former call. — From American Messenger. 



THE CHILDREN. 



w 



HEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, 
And the school for the day is dismissed, 
And the little ones gather around me, 
To bid me good-night and be kissed; 






160 warren's select readings. 

Oh ! the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in a tender embrace ! 
Oh ! the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face! 

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last; 
Of love that my heart will remember 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin, — 
When the glory of God was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

Oh ! my heart grows weak as a woman's, 

And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; 
Oh ! there 's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child! 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of God in disguise; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory still gleams in their eyes. 
Oh! these truants from home and from heaven, 

They have made me more manly and mild; 
And I know how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 
All radiant as others have done, 



warren's select readings. 161 

But that life may have just enough shadow- 
To temper the glare of the sun ; 

I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
But my prayer would bound back to myself; 

Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of God. 
My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them from breaking a rule; 
My frown is sufficient correction, 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more; 
Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 

That meet me each morn at the door! 
I shall miss the " good-nights " and the kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning to me. 

I shall miss them at morn and at eve, 

Their song in the school and the street; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And death says, "The school is dismissed!" 
May the little ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kissed ! 

Cliarlcs Dickens. 
14* L 



162 warren's select readings. 



I 



BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 
the Lord: 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 

wrath are stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible, 
swift sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred cir- 
cling camps ; 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews 
and damps ; 

I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and 
flaring lamps : 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 

steel : 
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 

grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 

his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call 
retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judg- 
ment-seat : 

O, be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my 
feet! 
Our God is marching on. 






warren's select readings. 163 



In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the 

sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 

me ; 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men 

free, 
While God is marching on. Julia Ward Howe. 



LAST INAUGURAL OF LINCOLN. 

FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN: At this second appear- 
ing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there 
is less occasion for extended address than there was at 
first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course 
to be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now at the 
expiration of four years, during which public declara- 
tions have been constantly called forth on every point 
and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the 
attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, 
little that is new could be presented. 

The progress of our arms, upon which all else 
chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to 
myself; and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and 
encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, 
no prediction in regard to it is ventured. 

On the occasion corresponding to this, four years 
ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an im- 
pending civil war. All dreaded it; all sought to avoid 
it. While the inaugural address was being delivered 
from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union 
without war, insurgent agents were in this city seeking 
to destroy it without war — seeking to dissolve the 



164 warren's select readings. 

Union and divide its effects by negotiation. Both 
parties deprecated war ; but one of them would make 
war rather than let the nation survive, and the other 
would accept war rather than let it perish ; and the 
war came. 

One-eighth of the whole population were colored 
slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but 
localized in the southern part of it. These slaves con- 
stituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew 
that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. 
To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend the interest was 
the object for which the insurgents would rend the 
Union, even by war, while the government claimed no 
right to do more than restrict the territorial enlarge- 
ment of it. 

Neither party expected for the war the magnitude 
or the duration which it has already attained. Neither 
anticipated that the cause might cease with or even 
before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked 
for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental 
and astounding. 

Both read the same Bible and prayed to the same 
God, and each invoked his aid against the other. It 
may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a 
just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the 
sweat of other men's faces ; but let us judge not, that 
we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be 
answered — that of neither has been answered fully. 
The Almighty has his own purpose. " Woe unto the 
world because of offences, for it must needs be that 
offences come ; but woe to that man by whom the 
offence cometh." If we shall suppose that American 
slavery is one of these offences which, in the provi- 



warren's select readings. i6s 

dence of God, must needs come, but which, having 
continued through his appointed time, He now wills 
to remove, and that He gives to both North and South 
this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the 
offence came, shall we discern therein any departure 
from those Divine attributes which the believers in a 
living God always ascribe to Him ? 

Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this 
mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, 
if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled 
by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of un- 
requited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of 
blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another 
drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand 
years ago, so still must it be said that the judgments 
of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. 

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with 
firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, 
let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind 
up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have 
borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans — 
to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and 
lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations. 



THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 

A GOOD dame looked from her cottage 
At the close of a pleasant day, 
And cheerily called her little son 

Outside the door at play. 
" Come, Peter ! come ! I want you to go, 
While there is light to see, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

To the hut of the blind old man 
Who lives across the Dike, for me, 

And take these cakes I have made for him, 
They are hot and smoking yet; 

You have time enough to go and come 
Before the sun is set." 

Then the good wife turns to her labor, 

Humming a simple song, 
And thought of her husband 

Working hard at the sluices all day long ; 
And set the turf ablazing, 

And brought the coarse black bread, 
That he might find a fire at night. 

And find the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother 

With whom all day he had played, 
And the sister, who had watched their sports 

In the willow's tender shade, 
And told them they would see him back 

Before they saw a star in sight; 
Though he would n't be afraid to go 

In the very darkest night! 
For he was a brave, bright fellow, 

With eye and conscience clear; 
He would do whatever a boy might do, 

And he had not learned to fear. 
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's nest, 

Nor brought a stork to harm, 
Though never a boy in Holland 

Had stood to stay his arm. 



warren's select readings. 167 

And now with his face all glowing, 

And eyes as bright as the day, 
With the thought of his pleasant errand, 

He trudged along the way, 
And soon his joyous prattle 

Made glad a lonesome way. 
Alas ! if only the blind old man 

Could have seen that happy face ! 
Yet he somehow caught the brightness 

Which his voice and presence lent, 
And he felt the sunshine come and go 

As Peter came and went. 

And now as the day was sinking, 

And the wind began to rise, 
The mother looked from her door again, 

Shading her anxious eyes, 
And saw the shadows deepen, 

And the birds to their homes come back, 
But never a sign of Peter 

Along the level track. 
But she said, " He will come at morning ; 

So I need not fret or grieve, 
Though it is n't like my boy at all, 

To stay without my leave." 

But where was the child delaying ? 

On the homeward way was he, 
And across the Dike, while the sun was up, 

An hour before the sea. 
He was stopping now to gather flowers, 

Now listening to the sound 
Of the angry waves as they dashed themselves 

Against their narrow bound. 



i68 warren's select readings. 

" Ah, well for us," said Peter, 

"That the gates are good and strong; 
My father tends them carefully, 

Or they would n't hold you long. 






" You 're a wicked sea," said Peter, 

" I know you fret and chafe ; 
You would like to spoil our lands and homes, 

But the sluices keep you safe." 
But, hark ! Through the noise of waters 

Comes a clear, low, trickling sound; 
And the child's face pales with terror, 

And his blossoms drop to the ground. 
He is up the bank in a moment, 

And stealing through the sand 
He sees a stream not yet so large 

As his slender, childish hand. 

'T is a Leak in the Dike ! He is but a boy, 

Unused to fearful scenes ; 
But, young as he is, he had learned to know 

The dreadful thing that means. 
A Leak in the Dike! The stoutest heart 

Grows faint that cry to hear; 
And the bravest man in all the land 

Turns white with mortal fear; 
For he knows that the smallest leak may grow 

To a flood in a single night; 
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea, 

When loosed to its angry might. 

And the boy he has seen the danger, 
And shouting a wild alarm, 



warren's select readings. 169 

He forces back the weight of the sea 

With the strength of his single arm. 
He listens for. the joyful sound 

Of a footstep passing nigh, 
And lays his head to the ground to catch 

The answer to his cry ; 
And he hears the rough winds blowing, 

The waters rise and fall, 
But never an answer comes to him 

Save the echo of his call. 
He sees no hope, no succor; 

His feeble voice is lost; 
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, 

Though he perish at his post. 

So faintly calling and crying, 

Till the sun is under the sea, 
Crying and moaning till the stars 

Come out for company. 
He thinks of his brother and sister 

Asleep in their safe, warm bed, 
He thinks of his father and mother, 

Of himself as dying — and dead, 
And of how, when the night is over, 

They must come and find him at last, 
But he never thinks he can leave the place 

Where duty holds him fast. 

The good dame in the cottage 

Is up and astir with the light; 
For the thought of little Peter 

Has been with her all night. 
15 



170 warren's select readings. 

And now she watches the pathway, 

As yestereve she had done; 
But what does she see, so strange and black, 

Against the rising sun ! 
Her neighbors are bearing between them, 

Something straight to her door; 
Her child is coming home, but not 

As he came before. 

" He is dead ! " she cries, " my darling ! " 

And the startled father hears, 
And comes and looks the way she looks, 

And fears the thing she fears; 
Till a glad shout from the bearers 

Thrills the stricken man and wife : 
" Give thanks ; your son has saved our land, 

And God has saved his life." 
So there in the morning sunshine, 

They knelt beside the boy, 
And every head was bared and bent 

In tearful, reverent joy. 

'T is many a year since then, 

But still, when the sea roars like a flood, 
Their boys are taught what boys can do 

Who are brave, and true, and good. 
For every man in that country 

Takes his son by the hand, 
And tells him of little Peter 

Whose courage saved the land. 
They have many a valiant hero 

Remembered through the years, 
But never one whose name so oft 

Is named with loving tears ; 



warren's select readings. 171 

And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, 
And told to the child on the knee, 

As long as the Dikes of Holland 
Divide that land from the sea. 

Phoebe Cary. 

EARL BORTH WICK'S DECREE. 

A SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

CALL hither my daughter Isabel; 
Now, Murray, I speak it so, 
Carry my bairn to North Berwick Law, 
Or here thy suit forego." 

Loud laughed the Lord of Marshall's mead; 
" I bear no maid ! " said he, 



"A craven's boast is quickly said ! " 

The heir of Coburn cried ; 
" Come, Isabel ! thou art fit* one 

That I should make my bride ! 

" Throw off thy shoes, my pretty bird, 
Thy girdle, and pearl necklace ; 

A pin's point almost weighs a pound, 
Before I end my race ! 

" For to the top of North Berwick Law, 
Is three long miles and more ; 

And the heavy toil up the mountain side 
Will make it seem a score." 



\J2 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

He took her in his manly arms, 

And started in his race ; 
Never a one who followed him 

Could keep up with his pace. 

And now he sang as the path grew steep, 

And made him pant and blow; 
" Love gives me strength, Love gives me speed, 

Love aids me where I go. 

" Lie still within my arms, sweet love, 

Lie still, my Isabel ! 
For the gully 's deep, and the scaur is steep, 

And the distance, it is fell. 

" Give me a glance of thy hazel eyes, 

When I falter in my race; 
Or breathe a breath of thy honey mou' 

Upon my heated face. 

"Love gives me strength; Love gives me speed," 

Undauntedly he sung ; 
And with the burden of his song, 

The rocks around him rung. 

" Seest thou the top of the mountain yet ? " 

Unto his love he cried ; 
" Nothing but heather and ling around," 

Fair Isabel said and sighed. 

" I see the Isle of May, and the Bass, 

And the Ewe, and the Lamb, and the Sea, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 173 

And the shores of Fife, and the Dunbar Creek, 
Wi' canny Edinbree ! " 

"Oh, Isabel! I 'gin to faint, 

For the way is long and steep ! " 
The pretty maiden bowed her head, 

And long, long did she weep. 

"Oh, that I were a bird, this once, 

But now, and for thy sake ! 
Oh, Willie, dear! have courage yet, 

And one mair effort make ! 

"Oh, leave me not to Murray's arms; 

I '11 breathe upon thy face ! " 
It freshened him, as he upward rushed, 

New-hearted in the race. 

He staggered now, for his limbs grew tired, 

And his arms were weak as tow ; 
And as he strove to keep his feet, 

He flickered to and fro. 

"That ever love should not be light! 

That ever this form of thine 
Should tire my heart and stoutest limbs, 

And bid my courage tyne ! " 

"Oh, faint not yet. I see the top 
And a saugh-tree by a stone!" 
Poor Willie, he gathered up his strength, 

But his heart sent forth a groan. 

15* 



1/4 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

" Oh, Isabel, my strength does fail, 

And the top we have not won ! " 
" Oh, Willie, dear ! one struggle mair, 

Ere strength and hope are gone ! " 

He clenched his teeth, and drew hard his breath, 

Like a man to win or die ; 
Then did he rush o'er scaur and bush, 

And gained the mountain high. 

He gained the saugh-tree, and he placed 

Fair Isabel on a stone, 
And forward fell upon his face 

Wi' a deep and heavy groan. 

Borthwick, the youth raised in his arms, 
"He'll come round when he's nursed;" 

But the blood came o'er poor Willie's lips, 
For his very heart had burst. 

There 's a green grave on North Berwick Law, 

And a maniac comes and sings, 
And with the burden of her song 

The valley 'neath her rings. 

"Love gave him strength, Love gave him speed," 

So sings this mad damsel; 
" Never a love was yet so fair, 

But fortune it was fell ! '' 

A hunter ranged, one early morn, 

The top of Berwick Law ; 
Wi' her cauld cheek on a caulder stone, 

That fair maiden he saw. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 1/5 

THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN. 

The great battle of Flodden was fought upon the 9th of Sep- 
tember, 1 513. The whole strength of the kingdom, both Low- 
land and Highland, was assembled, under James IV., and the 
defeat of his army was the most disastrous of any in the history 
of the Northern Wars. No event in Scottish history ever took a 
more lasting hold of the public mind than the " woful fight" of 
Flodden ; and, even now, the songs and traditions which are 
current on the Border, recall the memory of the contest unsul- 
lied by disgrace, though terminating in disaster and defeat. 

NEWS of battle ! — news of battle ! 
Hark! 'tis ringing down the street: 
And the archways and the pavement 

Bear the clang of hurrying feet. 
News of battle ! who hath brought it? 

News of triumph? Who should bring 
Tidings from our noble army, 

Greetings from our gallant King? 
All last night we watched the beacons 

Blazing on the hills afar, 
Each one bearing, as it kindled, 

Message of the opened war. 
All night long the northern streamers 

Shot across the trembling sky: 
Fearful lights, that never beacon 

Save when kings or heroes die. 

News of battle ! Who hath brought it ? 

All are thronging to the gate; 
"Warder — warder! open quickly! 

Man — is this a time to wait?" 
And the heavy gates are opened ; 

Then a murmur long and loud, 



176 



And a cry of fear and wonder 

Bursts from out the bending crowd. 
For they see in battered harness 

Only one hard-stricken man ; 
And his weary steed is wounded, 

And his cheek is pale and wan ; 
Spearless hangs a bloody banner 

In his weak and drooping hand — 
God ! can that be Randolph Murray, 

Captain of the city band ? 

Round him crush the people, crying, 

" Tell us all — oh, tell us true ! 
Where are they who went to battle, 

Randolph Murray, sworn to you ? 
Where are they, our brothers — children ? 

Have they met the English foe? 
Why art thou alone, unfollowed? 

Is it weal or is it woe ? " 
Like a corpse the grisly warrior 

Looks from out his helm of steel ; 
But no word he speaks in answer — 

Only with his armed heel 
Chides his weary steed, and onward 

Up the city streets they ride, 
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children, 

Shrieking, praying by his side. 
" By the God that made thee, Randolph, 
Tell us what mischance hath come." 

Then in came Randolph Murray — 
His step was slow and weak, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. IJJ 

And, as he doffed his dinted helm, 

The tears ran down his cheek; 
They fell upon his corslet 

And on his mailed hand, 
And he gazed around him wistfully, 

Leaning sorely on his brand. 
And none who then beheld him 

But straight were smote with fear, 
For a bolder and a sterner man 

Had never couched a spear. 
They knew so sad a messenger 

Some ghastly news must bring; 
And all of them were fathers, 

And their sons were with the King. 

And up then rose the Provost — 

A brave old man was he, 
Of ancient name and knightly fame, 

And chivalrous degree. 
Oh ! woful now was the old man's look, 

And he spake right heavily — 
" Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings, 

However sharp they be ! 
Woe is written on thy visage, 

Death is looking from thy face; 
Speak ! though it be of overthrow — 

It cannot be disgrace ! " 

Right bitter was the agony 

That wrung that soldier proud ; 
Thrice did he strive to answer, 

And thrice he groaned aloud. 
M 



178 warren's select readings. 

Then he gave the riven banner 

To the old man's shaking hand, 
Saying, " That is all I bring ye 

From the bravest of the land ! 
Ay ! ye may look upon it — 

It was guarded well and long, 
By your brothers and your children, 

By the valiant and the strong. 
One by one they fell around it, 

As the archers laid them low, 
Grimly dying, still unconquered, 

With their faces to the foe. 
Sirs ! I charge you keep it holy, 

Keep it as a sacred thing, 
For the stain you see upon it 

Was the life-blood of your King ! " 

Woe, woe, and lamentation ! 

What a piteous cry was there ! 
Widows, maidens, mothers, children, 

Shrieking, sobbing in despair ! 
Through the streets the death-word rushes, 

Spreading terror, sweeping on — 
"Jesu Christ! our King hath fallen, 

O great God, King James is gone! 
Holy Mother Mary, shield us, 

Thou who erst didst love thy Son ! 
O the blackest day for Scotland 

That she ever knew before ! 
O our King — the good, the noble, 

Shall we see him never more? 
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland ! 

O our sons, our sons and men ! 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I79 

Surely some have 'scaped the Southron, 
Surely some will come again ? " 

Till the oak that fell last winter 
Shall uprear its shattered stem — 

Wives and mothers of Dunedin — 
Ye may look in vain for them ! 

Then the Provost he uprose, 

And his lip was ashen white; 
But a flush was on his brow, 

And his eye was full of light. 
" Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray, 

Like a soldier stout and true; 
Thou hast done a deed of daring 

Had been perilled but by few. 
For thou hast not shamed to face us, 

Nor to speak thy ghastly tale, 
Standing — thou a knight and captain 

Here, alive within thy mail ! 
Now, as my God shall judge me, 

I hold it braver done, 
Than hadst thou, tarried in thy place, 

And died above my son. 
Thou need'st not tell it : he is dead. 

God help us all this day ! 
But speak — how fought the citizens 

Within the furious fray ! 
For, by the might of Mary! 

'Twere something still to tell 
That no Scottish foot went backward 

When the Royal Lion fell!" 

" No one failed him ! He is keeping 
Royal state and semblance still ! 



180 warren's select readings. 

Knight and noble lie around him, 

Cold on Flodden's fatal hill. 
Of the brave and gallant hearted, 

Whom ye sent with prayers away, 
Not a single man departed 

From his monarch yesterday. 
Few there were when Surrey halted, 

And his wearied host withdrew; 
None but dying men around me, 

When the English trumpet blew. 
Then I stooped and took the banner, 

As you see it, from his breast; 
And I closed our hero's eyelids, 

And I left him to his rest. 
In the mountains growled the thunder, 

As I leaped the woful wall; 
And the heavy clouds were settling 

Over Flodden, like a pall." 

. William E. Aytoun. 



NOBILITY OF LABOR. 

1CALL upon those whom I address to* stand up for 
the nobility of labor. It is heaven's great ordinance 
for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance 
be broken down. What do I say ? It is broken down ; 
and it has been broken down for ages. Let it then be 
built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a 
new world, of a new civilization. But how, I may 
be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it 
may be said. They do indeed toil ; but they too gen- 
erally do it because they must. Many submit to it as 



warren's select readings. 181 

in some sort a degrading necessity; and they desire 
nothing so much on earth as to escape from it. They 
fulfil the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in 
the spirit ; fulfil it with the muscle, but break it with 
the mind. To some field of labor, mental or manual, 
every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted the- 
atre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, 
under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On 
the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses 
himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the 
heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system under 
which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in 
fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium 
of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou ? 
Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field ; 
of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honorable 
than that of war ; of thy soiled and weather-stained 
garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, 
•midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own her- 
aldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, 
and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness 
and vanity ? It is treason to Nature ; it is impiety to 
Heaven ; it is breaking Heaven's great ordinance. 
Toil, I repeat, toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or 
of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true 
nobility. — Orville Dewey. 
16 



182 warren's select readings. 

KING LEAR DIVIDING HIS KINGDOM. 

Act I. Scene I. — A room of state in King Lear's palace. 

Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, 
Cordelia, and attendants. 

Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, 
Gloster. 

Glo. I shall, my liege. \_Exeunt Glo. and Edm K 

Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. 
Give me the map there. — Know that we have divided, 
In three, our kingdom ; and 't is our fast intent 
To shake all cares and business from our age ; 
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we 
Unburdened crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, 
And you, our no less loving son of Albany, 
We have this hour a constant will to publish 
Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife 
May be prevented now. The princes, France and 

Burgundy, 
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, 
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn. 
And here are to be answered. Tell me, my daughters, 
(Since now we will divest us, both of rule, 
Interest of territory, cares of state,) 
Which of you, shall we say, doth love us most? 
That we our largest bounty may extend 
Where merit doth most challenge it. Goneril, 
Our eldest born, speak first. 

Gon. Sir, I 

Do love you more than words can wield the matter, 
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty ; 
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; 



warren's select readings. 183 

No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honor ; 
As much as child e'er loved, or father found, 
A love that'makes breath poor, and speech unable ; 
Beyond all manner of so much I love you. 

Cor. What shall Cordelia do ? Love, and be silent. 

[Aside. 

Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to 
this, 
With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, 
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, 
We make thee lady : To thine and Albany's issue 
Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter, 
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall ? Speak. 

Reg. I am made of that self metal as my sister, 
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart 
I find she names my very deed of love ; 
Only she comes too short, — That I profess 
Myself an enemy to all other joys, 
Which the most precious square of sense possesses ; 
And find, I am alone felicitate 
In your dear highness' love. 

Cor. Then poor Cordelia ! [Aside. 

And yet not so ; since, I am sure, my love 's 
More richer than my tongue. 

Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever, 
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom ; 
No less in space, validity, and pleasure, 
Than that confirm'd on Goneril. Now, our joy, 
Although the last, not least; to whose young love 
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy, 
Strive to Me interess'd ; what can you say, to draw 
A third more opulent than your sisters ? Speak. 

Cor. Nothing, my lord. 



184 warren's select readings. 

Lear. Nothing ? 

Cor. Nothing. 

Lear. Nothing can come of nothing; speak again. 

Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave 
My heart into my mouth : I love your majesty 
According to my bond ; nor more, nor less. 

Lear. How, how, Cordelia ? mend your speech a little, 
Lest it may mar your fortunes. 

Cor. Good, my lord, 

You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me : I 
Return those duties back as are right fit, 
Obey you, love you, and most honor you. 
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say, 
They love you, all ? Haply, when I shall wed, 
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry 
Half my love with him, half my care and duty ; 
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
To love my father all. 

Lear. But goes this with thy heart ? 

Cor. Ay, good, my lord. 

Lear. So young, and so untender? 

Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 

Lear. Let it be so. Thy truth then be thy dower : 
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun ; 
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night ; 
By all the operations of the orbs, 
From whom we do exist, and cease to be; 
Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
Propinquity, and property of blood, 
And as a stranger to my heart and me 
Hold thee, from this, for ever. The barbarous Scythian, 
Or he that makes his generation messes 
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom 



warren's select readings. 185 

Be as well neighbored, pitied, and reliev'd, 
As thou my sometime daughter. 

Kent. Good my liege, — 

Lear. Peace, Kent! 
Come not between the dragon and his wrath : 
I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest 
On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight ! — 

\To Cordelia. 
So be my grave my peace, as here I give 
Her father's heart from her ! Call France ; who stirs ? 
Call Burgundy. Cornwall, and Albany, 
With my two daughters' dowers digest this third, 
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. 
I do invest you jointly with my power, 
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects 
That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, 
With reservation of a hundred knights, 
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode 
Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain 
The name, and all the additions to a king ; 
The sway, 

Revenue, execution of the rest, 
Beloved sons, be yours : which to confirm, 
This coronet part between you. [Giving the crown. 

Shakespeare. 



EASTER. 

THE days go by from January to December, a pro- 
cession of dull drudges, bringing to each of us 
breakfast and dinner, the morning paper, a few sales, 
a little gossip. Why should they be given up to earn- 
ing bread and butter? Why should they not be forced 
16* 



186 warren's select readings. 

in themselves to educate us in healthful thoughts and 
the higher aims ? Why should they not be imbued 
with some great thought, and go out with it like the 
prophets of old, to lift the hearts of a whole nation 
for one brief throb nearer to life and to God ? We 
would be glad, for our part, if every day in the year 
could bear the name of a noble life or a great deed, 
and, instead of an unmeaning month and number, 
could tell to our children the story of one of the few 
men in the world who have made all humanity more 
akin to God. 

Whether the 25th of December was or was not 
really the birthday of the son of Mary, does not mat- 
ter so greatly ; but it imports much to the world that 
on one day in the year it should stand still, while 
slave and statesman, prince and prisoner, the starving, 
tired workman, or the young man rejoicing in his 
strength, hear the simple story of the stable and the 
child : how Love, divine and helpful, Brotherly Love, 
had its birth from the loins of a pauper; how kings 
paid it homage, and God claimed it as a part of him- 
self. 

The death of Christ is perhaps to some of us merely 
a matter of history ; to others the sole hope for our 
own life beyond death. But for the most indifferent 
it cannot but be strengthening and ennobling to look 
once a year upon the spectacle of a man dying for 
his brother man. The human brain has no sublimer, 
more helpful thought than this — that a man gave his 
life not for his friend, but his enemy. 

What harm can it do the busiest of us to halt for 
one hour in the year, in our hurried task of amassing 
money or knowledge, to remember the sudden and 



warren's select readings. 187 

awful silence which will fall upon us some day, and 
ask ourselves if that silence will ever be broken ? 
From out that dark unknown into which we go with 
blind eyes and dumb white lips, shall we come again? 
And what of those whose names we never speak, who, 
in the year that is just gone, turned away and went 
out of the household, from the every-day life, the work 
and jokes and kindnesses which they had shared from 
the cradle with us, without, perhaps, a word of good- 
by? 

They lay down in a narrow cut in the damp ground, 
and made a home of that. They would not answer 
us, call we ever so loudly. They sent us no tidings 
whether it was well with them, whether they forgave 
the hasty word, the unkindness which now it was 
more bitter than death to remember. 

Is that the end ? Are the lips we kissed, and the 
hand whose every line we knew, and the dear face that 
held all the tender passionate love that life had to give 
us, gone? become mere clay and lime? No more? 
Or do the blossoms and music of the Easter resurrec- 
tion hint of lives to come, illimitable, unending; where 
the old faces shall meet us, and the old voices speak 
again that have so long been silent ? Is there some- 
where a country " where an enemy never enters, and 
whence a friend never goes away " ? where they stand 
and wait and keep a hopeful tryst for us ? Even to 
those of us who have the near familiar faces yet about 
us, this life has proved already incomplete. There 
have been riddles unanswered, talents thwarted, good 
aims and noble human lives gone hopelessly by de- 
fault. Is there a stronger, broader day than this ? — 
wider fields, infinite range of action, higher deeds for 



188 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

the poor baffled wretch who planned so nobly here 
and accomplished but poor and paltry work ? Will 
the dark riddle of each balked life then be set right? 
Who was it said there was no second chance to us for- 
ever? The Easter bells tell us that in God's just uni- 
verse the chance is never lost to us. No wonder that, 
hearing the story, the Russian peasant believes that, 
as they ring in the dawn, the sun and stars rejoice 
with him. No wonder, either, that on this morning 
Kaiser and serf take hands together and greet each 
other as brother, while they repeat that Christ is risen, 
and remember all that it means to them. 

From "New York Tribune." 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 

VITAL spark of heavenly flame, 
Quit, O quit this mortal frame: 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
O the pain, the bliss, of dying ! 
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life ! 

Hark ! they whisper ; angels say, 
" Sister spirit, come away ! " 
What is this absorbs me quite? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 

The world recedes; it disappears! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 



warren's select readings. 189 

With sounds seraphic ring; 

Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 

O Grave ! where is thy victory ? 

O Death ! where is thy sting ? 

Alexander Pope. 



THE COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT. 

Scene IV. Manfred. 
Interior of the Tower. Manfred alone. 

THE stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful! 
I linger yet with nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness 
I learned the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Caesar's palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn" breach 
Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 



90 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Within a bowshot — Where the Csesars dwelt, 

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 

A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 

Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — 

But the gladiators' bloody circus stands, 

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 

While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 

All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 

Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 

Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 

As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries ; 

Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 

And making that which was not, till the place 

Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 

With silent worship of the great of old ! — 

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 

Our spirits from their urns. — Byron. 



THE POWER OF MUSIC. 

HOW sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit Jessica : Look, how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold ; 
There 's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubims : 



warren's select readings. 191 

Such harmony is in immortal souls : 
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 

We are never merry when we hear sweet music. 

The reason is our spirits are attentive : 

For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, 

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, 

Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, 

Or any air of music touch their ears, 

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, 

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 

By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet 

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, floods ; 

Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 

But music for the time doth change his nature ; 

The man that hath no music in himself, 

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, 

Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils; 

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 

And his affections dark as Erebus : 

Let no such man be trusted. — Shakespeare. 



THE SEA. 



THE sea! the sea! the open sea! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 
Without a mark, without a bound, 
It runneth the earth's wide regions 'round; 
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 



192 warren's select readings. 

I 'm on the sea ; I'm on the sea ! 

I am where I would ever be; 

With the blue above, and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go; 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter? I should ride and sleep. 

I love, oh ! how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming-, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the moon, 
Or whistles aloft its tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the south-west blasts do blow. 

I never was on the dull tame shore, 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; 
And a mother she was and is to me; 
For I was born on the open sea. 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child! 

I Ve lived since then in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers a sailer's life, 
, With wealth to spend and a power to range, 
But never have sought, nor sighed for change ; 
And death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea. 

Barry Cornwall. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. I93 



ON MERCY. 



THE quality of mercy is not strained; 
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed — 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ! 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power. 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above the sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute of God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
When mercy seasons justice ! Therefore, 
Jew, though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
That, in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation ; we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy ! — • Shakespeare. 



THE "MAYFLOWER" AND THE PILGRIMS. 

METHINKS I see it now, that one solitary, adven- 
turous vessel, the "Mayflower" of a forlorn hope, 
freighted with the prospects of a future state, and 
bound across the unknown sea. 

I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, 

the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, 

and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises 

them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of 

17 N 



194 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily sup- 
plied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation 
in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a 
circuitous route; and now, driven in fury before the 
raging tempest, in their scarcely sea-worthy vessel. 
The awful voice of the storm howls through the rig- 
ging. The laboring masts seem straining from their 
base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the 
ship leaps, as it were, madly from billow to billow; 
the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods 
over the floating deck, and beats with deadening 
weight against the staggered vessel. 

I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their 
all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after 
five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Ply- 
mouth, weak and weary from the voyage, poorly 
armed, scantily provisioned, depending on the charity 
of their ship-master for a draught of beer on board, 
drinking nothing but water on shore, without shelter, 
without means, surrounded by hostile tribes. 

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on 
any principle of human probability, what shall be the 
fate of this handful of adventurers. 

Tell me, man of military science, in how many 
months were they all swept off by the thirty savage 
tribes, enumerated within the early limits of New Eng- 
land ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow 
of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties 
had not smiled, languish on the distant coast ? 

Student of history, compare for me the baffled pro- 
jects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adven- 
tures of other times, and find the parallel of this. 
Was it the winter's storm beating upon the houseless 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS, 195 

heads of women and children ? Was it hard labor 
and spare meals ? Was it disease ? Was it the 
tomahawk? Was it the deep malady of blighted 
hope? a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching 
in its last moments at the recollection of the loved 
and left, beyond the sea? Was it some, or all of 
these united, that hurried this forsaken company to 
their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither 
of these causes, that not all combined, were able to 
blast this bud of hope ? 

Is it possible, that from a beginning so feeble, so 
frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, 
there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth 
so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise yet to 
be fulfilled so glorious ? — E. Everett. 



AMERICA'S THANKSGIVING HYMN. 

ALMIGHTY Lord of glory! 
Our praise to Him we bring; 
And chant our country's story, 

Where God alone is King; 
His outstretched arm sustaining, 
Behold the Mayflower come ! 
His mercy foreordaining 

Our land for Freedom's home. 

Though wintry darkness gathers, 
And dearth and death prevail, 

The faithful Pilgrim Fathers 
Could look within the veil; 



196 warren's select readings. 

O joy amid the sadness ! 

They 're free to do and pray, 
And keep in sober gladness 

Their first Thanksgiving Day. 

These seeds of Faith and Freedom 

God's Word hath wafted free ; 
O'er rocks outsoaring Edom 

They reach the Sunset Sea; 
And East and West uniting, 

One family become ; 
With North and South relighting 

Love's lamp, — We're all at home! 

With half of heaven above us, 

An ocean on each hand, 
We 've room for all who love us, 

And join our brother band; 
Praising the Great All-Giver, 

Our Home Feast we display, 
And ever and forever 

Keep free Thanksgiving Day. 

In palace and in prison 

Our Festival is one, 
The witness Christ is risen — 

Good- will for men begun; 
Our hearts one hope rejoices, 

Our souls in union pray, 
'Mid songs of choral voices — 

God bless Thanksgiving Day. 

S. J. Hale. 



warren's select readings. 197 

TOM'S COME HO&E. 

WITH its heavily rocking and swinging load, 
The stage-coach rolls up the mountain road ; 
The mowers lean on their scythes and say, 
" Hullo ! what brings Big George this way ? " 
The children climb the slats, and wait 
To see him drive past the door-yard gate ; 
When, four in hand, sedate and grand, 
He brings the old craft like a ship to land, 
At the window, mild grandmotherly eyes 
Beam from their glasses with quaint surprise, 
Grow wide with wonder, and guess, and doubt; 
Then a quick, half-stifled voice shrieks out, 
" Tom ! Tom 's come home ! " 

The face at the casement disappears, 
To shine at the door, all joy and tears, 
As a traveller, dusty and bearded and brown, 
Over the wheels steps lightly down. 
" Well, mother ! " " My son ! " And to his breast 
A forward tottering form is pressed. 
She lies there, and cries there ; now at arm's length 
Admires his manly size and strength 
(While he winks hard one misty eye) ; 
Then calls to the youngsters staring nigh, 
"Quick! go for your gran'ther! run, boys, run ! 
Tell him your uncle — tell him his son — 
Our Tom 's come home ! " 

The stage-coach waits ; but little cares she 
What faces pleasantly smile to see 



198 warren's select readings. 

Her jostled glasses and tumbled cap. 
Big George's hands the trunk unstrap 
And bear it in ; while two light-heeled 
Young Mercuries fly to the mowing field, 
And shriek and beckon, and meet half-way 
The old gran'ther, lame and gaunt and gray, 
Coat on arm, half in alarm, 
Striding over the stony farm. 
The good news clears his cloudy face, 
And he cries, as he quickens his anxious pace, 
"Tom? Tom come home?" 

With twitching cheek and quivering lid 
(A soft heart under the hard lines hid), 
And " Tom, how d'e do ? " in a husky voice, 
He grasps with rough, strong hand the boy's - 
A boy's no more. " I should n't have known 
That beard." While Tom's fine baritone 
Rolls out from his deep chest cheerily, 
" You 're hale as ever, I 'm glad to see." 
In the low back porch the mother stands, 
And rubs her glasses with trembling hands, 
And, smiling with eyes that blear and blink, 
Chimes in, " I never ! " and " Only think ! 
Our Tom 's come home ! " 

With question and joke and anecdote, 
He brushes his hat, they dust his coat, 
While all the household gathers near — 
Tanned urchins, eager to see and hear, 
And large-eyed, dark-eyed, shy young mother, 
Widow of Tom's unlucky brother, 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 1 99 

Who turned out ill, and was drowned at the 

mill: 
The stricken old people mourn him still, 
And the hope of their lives in him undone; 
But grief for the dissolute, ruined son — 
Their best beloved and oldest boy — 
Is all forgotten, or turned to joy 

Now Tom 's come home. 

Yet Tom was never the favored child, 
Though Tom was steady, and Will was wild ; 
But often his own and his brother's share 
Of blows or blame he was forced to bear ; 
Till at last he said, " Here is no room 
For both — I go ! " Now he to whom 
Scant grace was shown has proved the one 
Large-hearted, upright, trusty son ; 
And well may the old folks joy to find 
His brow so frank and his eye so kind, 
No shadow of all the past allowed 
To trouble the present hour, or cloud 
His welcome home. 

His trunk unlocked, the lid he lifts, 

And lays out curious, costly gifts ; 

For Tom has prospered since he went 

Into his long self-banishment. 

Each youngster's glee, as he hugs his share, 

The widow's surprise, and the old folks' air 

Of affectionate pride in a son so good, 

Thrill him with generous gratitude. 

And he thinks, " Am I that lonely lad 

Who went off friendless, poor, and sad 



200 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

That dismal day from my father's door ? " 
And can it be true he is here once more 
In his childhood's home? 

Tis hard to think of his brother dead, 
And a widow and orphans here in his stead — 
So little seems changed since they were young ! 
The row of pegs where the hats were hung ; 
The checkered chimney and hearth of bricks ; 
The sober old clock with its lonesome ticks 
And shrill, loud chime for the flying time; 
The stairs the bare feet used to climb, 
Tom chasing his wild bedfellow Will; 
And there is the small, low bedroom still, 
And the table he had when a little lad: 
Ah, Tom, does it make you sad or glad, 
This coming home? 

Tom's heart is moved. " Now don't mind me ! 

I am no stranger guest," cries he. 

" And, father, I say ! " — with the old-time laugh — - 

" Don't kill for me any fatted calf! 

But go now and show me the sheep and swine 

And the cattle — where^ is that colt of mine ? 

And the farm and crops — is harvest over? 

I'd like a chance at the oats and clover! 

I can mow, you '11 find, and cradle and bind, 

Load hay, stow away, pitch, rake behind ; 

For I know a scythe from a well-sweep yet. 

In an hour I '11 make you quite forget 

That I 've been from home." 

They visit the field. Tom mows with the men : 
And now they come round to the porch again, 



warren's select READINGS. 201 

The mother draws Tom aside; lets sink 

Her voice to a whisper, and — " What do you 

think? 
You see," she says, " he is broken quite. 
Sometimes he tosses and groans all night, 
And — Tom, it is hard, it is hard indeed! 
The mortgage, and so many mouths to feed ! 
But tell him he must not worry so, 
And work so hard, for he don't know 
That he has n't the strength of a younger man. 
Counsel him, comfort him, all you can, 
While you 're at home." 

Tom's heart is full ; he moves away, 
And ponders what he will do and say. 
And now at evening all are met, 
The tea is drawn, the table set ; 
But when the old man, with bended head, 
In reverent, fervent tones has said 
The opening phrase of his simple grace, 
He falters, the tears course down his face ; 
For the words seem cold, and the sense of the old 
Set form is too weak his joy to hold; 
And broken accents best express 
The upheaved heart's deep thankfulness, 
Now Tom's come home. 

The supper done, Tom has his say: 

" I heard of some matters first to-day, 

And I call it a shame — you 're both to blame — 

That a son, who has only to sign his name, 

To lift the mortgage and clear the score, 

Should never have had that chance before. 



202 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

From this time forth you are free from care ; 
Your troubles I share; your burdens I bear. 
So promise to quit hard work, and say 
That you'll give yourselves a holiday. 
Now, father ! now, mother ! you can't refuse ; 
For what 's a son for, and what 's the use 
Of his coming home?" 

And so there is cheer in the house to-night ; 
It can hardly hold so much delight. 
Tom wanders forth across the lot, 
And, under the stars — though Tom is not 
So pious as boys sometimes have been — 
Thanks heaven, that turned his thoughts from sin, 
And blessed him and brought him home once more. 
And now he knocks at a cottage door, 
For one who has waited many a year 
In hope that thrilling sound to hear ; 
Who, happy as other hearts may be, 
Knows well there is none so glad as she 
That Tom's come home. 

J. T. Trowbridge. 

THE CURFEW-BELL. 

SLOWLY England's sun was setting o'er the hill- 
tops far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 

day; 
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and 

maiden fair, 
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, 
floating hair ; 



He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with 

lips all cold and white, 
Struggling to keep back the murmur, — 
"Curfew must not ring to-night!' 

" Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the 

prison old, 
With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, 

damp, and cold, 
" I 've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night 

to die 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is 

nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew 

strangely white, 
As she breathed the husky whisper, — 
"Curfew must not ring to-night!' 

" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word 

pierced her young heart 
Like the piercing of an arrow — like a deadly poisoned 

dart; 
" Long, long years I Ve rung the Curfew from that 

gloomy shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight 

hour; 
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; 
Now I 'm old, I still must do it, 

Curfew must ring to-night!' 

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white 

her thoughtful brow, 
And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn 

vow ; 



204 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear 

or sigh, 
"At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood 

must die." 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes 

grew large and bright, 
In an undertone she murmured, 

"Curfew must not ring to -nighty 

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within 

the old church-door, 
Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd 

trod before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and 

cheek aglow, 
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung 

to and fro : 
And she climbed the dusty ladder, on which fell no 

ray of light ; 
Up and up — her white lips saying, 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night? 

She has reached the topmast ladder, o'er her hangs 

the great dark bell, 
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down 

to hell. 
Lo ! the pond'rous tongue is swinging ; 't is the hour of 

Curfew now, 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her 

breath and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! Flash her eyes 

with sudden light, 
And she springs and grasps it firmly, 

"Curfew shall not ring to -nig J it!' 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 2C>5 

Out she swung, far out, — the city seemed a speck of 

light below ; 
'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the 

bell swung to and fro ; 
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard 

not the bell ; 
But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's 

funeral knell. 
Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling 

lips and white, 
Said to hush her heart's wild beating, 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!' 

It was o'er — the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden 

stepped once more 
Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred 

years before 
Human foot had not been planted ; and the brave deed 

that she had done, 
Should be told long years after; as the rays of setting 

sun 
Should illume the sky with beauty, aged sires with 

heads of white 
Long should tell the little children why the Curfew 

did not ring that night. 

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees 

him, and her brow, 
Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious 

traces now; 
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all 

bruised and torn ; 
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow 

pale and worn, 



206 warren's select readings. 

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with 

misty light. 
" Go, your lover lives ! " said Cromwell ; 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night!' — Anon. 



DEATH OF MARMION. 

WHEN, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare: 
" Where 's Harry Blount ? Fitz- Eustace where ? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again! 
Yet my last thought is England's — fly ; 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring; 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. 
Fitz-Eustace to Lord Surrey hie : 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field ; 
His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 
Edmund is down — my life is reft; 
The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire — 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host, 
Or victory and England's lost. 
Must I bid twice ? Hence, varlets ! fly ! 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die ! " 

They parted, and alone he lay; 
Clare drew her from the sight away, 



warren's select readings. 207 

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmured, " Is there none, 
Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 
To slake my dying thirst ? " 

O, woman ! in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made ; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou! 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 

When with the baron's casque the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 

The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 

She stooped her by the runnel's side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 

For, oozing from the mountain wide, 

Where raged the war, a dark red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 

Where shall she turn ! — behold her mark 

A little fountain-cell, 

Where water, clear as diamond spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 

Above some half worn letters say, 

Dri?ik y weary pilgrim, drink, and pray 

For the kind soul of Sybil Grey, 

Who built this cross and well. 



208 warren's select readings. 

She filled the helm, and back she hied, 

And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head; 

A pious man, whom duty brought 

To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrive the dying, bless the dead. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 

And, as she stooped his brow to lave, 

" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 

" Or injured Constance, bathes my head ? " 

Then, as remembrance rose, 

" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 

Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 

Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " 

"Alas!" she said, "the while — 

Oh, think of your immortal weal ! 

In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 

She — died at Holy Isle." 

Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
As light as if he felt no wound; 
Though in the action burst the tide 
In torrents from his wounded side. 
" Then it was truth ! " he said ; " I knew 
That the dark presage must be true. 
I would the fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
Would spare me but a day ! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
And priests slain on the altar stone, 
Might bribe him for delay. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 2C>9 

It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on you base marauder's lance, 
And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
Supported by the trembling monk. 

With fruitless labor Clara bound 

And strove to staunch the gushing wound ; 

The monk, with unavailing cares, 

Exhausted all the church's prayers ; 

Ever, he said, that, close and near, 

A lady's voice was in his ear, 

And that the priest he could not hear, 

For that she ever sung, 
" In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles waAs rattle with groans of the dying! " 

So the notes rung; 
" Avoid thee, fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! 
Oh, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine; 
Oh, think on faith and bliss ! 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's parting seen, 
But never aught like this." 

The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale, 
And — Stanley ! was the cry ; 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 
And fired his glazing eye : 
With dying hand above his head, 
18* O 



2IO WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted " Victory ! 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, on ! " 
Were the last words of Marmion. — Sir W. Scott. 



THE FRENCH COOK. 

COLONEL ARDEN. I beg pardon. I may be 
mistaken ; but — am I speaking to — a cook ? 

Cook. Oui, monsieur ; oui, mon Colonel. I live four 
years wiz 'ze Marquis de Chester ; and if I have not 
turn him off les' month, I should 'ave the 'onneur to 
superinten' his cuisine at dis moment. 

Col. Turn him off? Oh, then, you discharged the 
marquis ! 

Cook. Oui, monsieur. I discharge him, because he 
cast affront on me, insupportable to an artist of senti- 
ment. 

Col. Artist? 

Cook. Oui, mon Colonel ! De marquis 'ave de 
mauvais taste one day, ven he 'ave large partie to 
daine, to put salt into his soup before all de com- 
pagnie ! 

Col. And is that a crime, sir, in your code ? 

Cook. Cod ? I dunno Cod. Oh, you mean salt 
fish ! Ah, dat is salt enough widout. 

Col. No, sir ; I don't mean that. Is it a crime for 
a man to put salt into his soup ? 

Cook. Non, monsieur, not a crime ; mais, it would 
be de ruin of me, as cook, should it be known to de 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 211 

world ; so I told his lor'ship I mus' leave him ; for de 
butler had said he saw his lor'ship put de salt into de 
soup ; which was proclamation to de universe dat I 
did not know de proper quantitie of salt for saison my 
soup ! 

Col. And whom else have you lived with ? 

Cook. My Lord Trefoil. Ah, bell 'homme, my Lord 
Trefoil ! But de king, one day, made him his gouver- 
nare in Ireland, and I could not live in dat barbare 
Dublin! 

Col. Indeed ! 

Cook. No, mon Colonel! Ver' fine city — vere 
good place: but — no opera! 

Col. Why, his lordship managed to live there with- 
out an opera. 

Cook. C'est vrai ; mais, I tink he did not know 
there vas none, ven he took de place. 

Col. And may I ask, sir, what wages you ex- 
pect? 

Cook. "Wages?" Je ne comprend pas, " Wages." 
Oh, you mean de stipende ! de salaire ! 

Col. Whatever you please. 

Cook. My Lord Trefoil give to me seven hunder 
pound a year, my wine, wid tilbury and horse, and 
small tigre for it. 

Col. Small what ? 

Cook. Tigre, tigre ! Leetle man boy, for hold de 
horse. 

Col. Ah, seven hundred pounds a year and a 
tiger? 

Cook. Exclusive of pastry ! I nevaire touch dat 
department ! But I 'ave de honneur to recommend 
Jenkin, my sistaire husband, for de pastry : at five 



212 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

hunder pound a year and his wine. Ah, Jenkin is 
dog-cheap at dat ! dog-cheap ! 

Col. Seven hundred pounds a year, exclusive of 
pastry, which is to be obtained for five hundred pounds 
additional ! Why, sir, the rector of my parish, a 
clergyman and a gentleman with an amiable wife and 
seven children, has but half that sum to live upon ! 

Cook. Poor clergy ! I pity your clergy ! But, 
mon Colonel, considaire de soup, de omelette. 

Col. Confound your omelette ! Do you mean, 
seriously, to ask me seven hundred pounds a year for 
your services ? 

Cook. (Taking snuff) Parfaitement, monsieur. 

Col. Double it, sir, and I '11 be your cook for the 
rest of my life ! Seven hundred pounds i 

{Mon Colonel exit in a rage.) 



TALLEYRAND'S WIFE. 

THE famous Talleyrand, who knew 
The secret of avoiding execution, 
And kept his head upon his shoulders through 
All the convulsions of the Revolution, 
When heads were cropped by the prevailing powers 

Like cauliflowers, — 
This Talleyrand possessed a wife, 
Selected in his humble life, 
A rich bourgeoise of homely breeding; 
Neither bas bleu, nor femme savants, 
But rather, as I freely grant, 
Deficient in her general reading. 
One day — 'twas when he stood elate, 
Napoleon's minister of state,— 



warren's select readings. 213 

Having invited to his house 

Some literati, to confer 

With a great foreign traveller, 

The husband thus addressed his spouse : m 

" My dear, at dinner you will meet 
A foreigner, a man of note ; 
These authors like that you should quote 
From their own works ; wherefore, to greet 
Our guests, suppose you learn by rote 
A sentence here and there, that when 
He prates, like other travelled men, 
Of his exploits on land and ocean, 
You may not be completely trammelled, 
But have at least some little notion 
Of how, and when, and where he travelled ; 
Take down his book, you '11 find it yonder, 
Its dull contents you need not ponder; 
Read but the headings of the chapters; 
Refer to them with praise and wonder, 
And our vain guest will be in raptures." 

Madame, resolved to play her part 
So as to win the stranger's heart, 
Studied the book ; but, far from dull, 
She found it quite delightful, — full 
Of marvellous adventures, fraught 
With perilous escapes, — which wrought 
So deep an interest in her mind 
She really was surprised to find, 
As to the dining-room she tripped, 
How rapidly the time had slipped. 
The more to flatter and delight her, 
When at the board she took her place, 



214 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

The famous traveller and writer 

Was seated at her side ! The grace 

Was hardly said, or soup sent round, 

JEre, with a shrug and a grimace, 

Eager to show her lore profound, 

"A la Francaise," she raised her eyes, 

And hands, and voice, in ecstacies, 

" Eh, Monsieur Robinson! Mon Dieu, 

Voila un Conte merveilleux ! 

Ah, par example — it appals 

The mind to think of your attacks 

On those terrific cannibals, 

Those horrid savages and blacks, 

Who, if they once had gained the upper 

Hand had eaten you for supper. 

And so prevented your proceeding 

With that sweet book I 've been reading ! 

Mais, quel bonheur! to liberate 

Poor Friday from the murderous fate, 

And gain, in your deserted state, 

So lonely and disconsolate, 

A servant and companion too ! " 

The visitors were all astounded; 

The stranger stared, aghast, dumbfounded ! 

Poor Talleyrand blushed red as flame, 

Till, having catechised the dame, 

The mystery was quickly cleared : 

The simple woman, it appeared, 

Instead of the intended book 

In which she had been told to look, 

From the same shelf contrived to take 

" Robinson Crusoe " — by mistake ! — Anon, 



warren's select readings. 215 

PARSON AVERY'S SWAN SONG. 

WHEN the reaper's task was ended, and the sum- 
mer wearing late, 
Parson Avery sailed from Newbury with his wife and 

children eight, 
Dropping down the river-harbor in the shallop, 
" Watch and Wait." 

Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer 

morn, 
And the newly-planted orchards dropping their fruit's 

first-born, 
And the homesteads like brown islands amidst a sea 

of corn. 

Broad meadows reaching seaward the tided creeks 

between, 
And hills rolled, wave-like inland, with oaks and 

walnuts green, 
A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eye had never 

seen. 

Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty 

led, 
And the voice of God seemed calling to break the 

living bread. 

All day they sailed, and at night-fall the pleasant 

land-breeze died, 
The blackening sky at midnight its starry lights 

denied, 
And far and low the thunder of tempest prophesied. 



216 warren's select readings. 

Blotted out was all the coast-line, gone were rock and 

wood and sand, 
Grimly anxious stood the helmsman with the tiller 

in his hand, 
And questioned of the darkness what was sea and 

what was land. 

And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round 

him, weeping sore ; 
" Never heed, my little children ! Christ is walking 

on before, 
To the pleasant land of Heaven, where the sea shall 

be no more ! " 

All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain 

drawn aside, 
To let down the torch of lightning on the terror far 

and wide ; 
And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote 

the tide. 

There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail and 

man's despair, 
A crash of breaking timber on the rocks so sharp 

and bare, 
And through it all the murmur of Parson Avery's 

prayer. 

From the struggle in the darkness with the wild 

waves and the blast, 
On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it 

passed, 
Alone of all his household the man of God was cast. 






warren's select readings. 217 



Then a comrade heard him praying in the pause of 

wave and wind, 
"All my own have gone before me, and I linger just 

behind; 
Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ransomed 

find. 

" In the baptism of these waters wash white my every 

sin, 
And let me follow up to Thee my household and my 

kin! 
Open the sea-gates of Thy Heaven, and let me enter in." 

The ear of God was open to his servant's last request ; 
As the strong wave swept him downward, the sweet 

prayer upward prest, 
And the soul of Father Avery went with it to his rest. 

There was wailing on the mainland from the rocks of 

Marblehead, 
In the stricken church of Newbury the notes of prayer 

were read, 
And long by board and hearth-stone the living mourned 

the dead. 

And still the fishers outbound, or scudding from the 

squall, 
With grave and reverent faces the ancient tale recall, 
When they see the white waves breaking on the " Rock 

of Avery's Fall ! " J. G. Whittier. 

19 



218 warren's select readings. 

AMERICAN PATRIOTISM. 

PATRIOTISM is the love of country. It has ever 
been recognized among the cardinal virtues of true 
men, and he who was destitute of it has been considered 
an ingrate. Even among the icy desolations of the far 
north we expect to find, and do find, an ardent affec- 
tion for the land of nativity, the home of childhood, 
youth, and age. There is much in our country to 
create and foster this sentiment. It is a country of 
imperial dimensions, reaching from sea to sea, and 
almost "from the rivers to the ends of the earth." 
None of the empires of old could compare with it in 
this regard. It is washed by two great oceans, while 
its lakes are vast inland seas. Its rivers are silver 
lines of beauty and commerce. Its grand mountain- 
chains are the links of God's forging and welding, 
binding together North and South, East and West. 

It is a land of glorious memories. It was peopled 
by the picked men of Europe, who came hither " not 
for wrath, but conscience' sake." Said the younger 
Winthrop to his father, " I shall call that my country 
where I may most glorify God, and enjoy the presence 
of my dearest friends." And so came godly men and 
devoted women flying from oppressive statutes, where 
they might find 

" Freedom to worship God." 

There are spots on the sun, and the microscope reveals 
flaws in burnished steel, and so there were spots and 
flaws in the character of the early founders of this land; 
but with them all, our colonial history is one that stirs 
the blood and quickens the pulse of him who reads. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 2IO, 

And then the glorious record of that Revolutionary 
struggle gives each American a solid historic platform 
on which he may plant his foot. It was an era of high 
moral heroism, and for principle against theoretical 
usurpation, rather than practical (though of the latter 
there wanted not enough to give to our fathers' lips a 
full and bitter cup), the men of the Revolution drew 
their swords, and entered the field against the most 
powerful nation of the world, and fought on and on, 
through murky gloom, until triumph came. It was 
also an era of Providential agencies and deliverances, 
and each right-feeling American realizes that not more 
truly did God raise up Moses and Aaron and lead 
Israel with the pillar of cloud and fire, than He raised 
up our leaders and led our fathers. And reverent is 
our adoration when we remember how He guided the 
deliberations of our Constitutional Convention, and 
poured the peaceful spirit, in answer to ascending 
prayer, down upon that august convocation. 

There are later memories, when, again measuring 
strength with Britain, our gallant tars showed on the 
sea and on the lakes that the empire of the deep was 
not henceforth to be conceded to the so-called " Mis- 
tress of the Seas." It was a new sensation experienced 
by the old nations, when the youngest of them all 
dared lift the glove of the power which " ruled the 
waves," and defy her on the field of her greatest 
prowess. Yet so it was ; and the achievements of 
Decatur, McDonough, Paul Jones, and Porter gave 
lustre to our navy, to be brightened by Foote, Farra- 
gut, Porter, Dahlgren, and Worden, in our own times. 

It is a land of innumerable resources. Extending 
through so many parallels of latitude and isothermal 



220 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

lines, its soil yields almost an infinite variety of pro- 
ductions. It gives the fruits and grains of all zones. 
Within its bosom lie hid all minerals ; the iron, the 
copper, vast fields of coal, the gold, the silver, the 
platina, the quicksilver, while the very " rock pours 
out rivers of oil." Its forests are rich in exhaustless 
stores of timber, while its prairies are the granaries of 
the world. 

It is the land of the free school, the free press, and 
the free pulpit. It is impossible to compute the power 
of this trio. The free schools, open to rich and poor, 
bind together the people in educational bonds and in 
the common memories of the recitation-room and the 
play-ground; and how strong they are, you, reader, 
well know, as some past recollection tugs at your 
heart-strings. The free press may not always be 
altogether as dignified or elevated as the more highly 
cultivated may desire, but it is ever open to the com- 
plaints of the people ; is ever watchful of popular rights, 
and jealous of class encroachments, and the highest 
in authority know that it is above President or Senate. 

The free pulpit, sustained not by legally exacted 
tithes wrung from an unwilling people, but by the free- 
will offerings of loving supporters, gathers about it 
the millions, inculcates the highest morality, points to 
brighter worlds, and when occasion demands will not 
be silent before political wrongs. Its power, simply 
as an educating agency, can scarcely be estimated. 
In this country its freedom gives a competition so 
vigorous that it must remain in direct popular sym- 
pathy. How strong it is, the country saw when its 
voice was lifted in the old cry, " Rebellion is as the 
sin of witchcraft." Its words started the slumbering, 



warren's select READINGS. 221 

roused the careless, and called the " sacramental host," 
as well as the " men of the world, to arms." These 
three grand agencies are not rival, but supplementary, 
each doing an essential work in public culture. 

Ours, above all others, is the land of homes. Local 
attachment is essential to patriotism. Give a man a 
bit of ground, and let him build a house, though it be 
scarce larger than Queen Mab's, and he becomes a 
permanent part of the country. He has something 
to live for, vote for, fight for. Here there is no system 
of vast land-ownerships, with lettings and sub-lettings, 
but, on the contrary, the abundance and cheapness of 
land, and the prevalence of wise home exemptions, 
give a large portion of the population proprietary 
interests. 

To all this add the freedom of the elective franchise, 
which invests the humblest citizen with the functions 
of sovereignty, and opens to his competition the high- 
est places of trust and profit, and is there not reason 
for loving such a country ? Is there not reason why 
its home-born sons should swear upon its holy altars 
that this trust, received from their fathers, shall be 
transmitted, pure and whole, to their children? Is 
there not reason why each adopted son should see 
that the land which gives him sanctuary, refuge, and 
citizenship, shall not be rent in twain? Especially 
that it shall not be divided in the interest of class dis- 
tinctions, of distinction between labor and capital, based 
upon a difference of birth and ancestry. 

Above all, we assume the higher doctrine that civil 
government is divinely appointed, " that the powers 
that be are ordained of God," and thus make the main- 
tenance of lawfully established government duty. God, 
19* 



222 WARREN'S SELECT READINGS. 

the King of nations, summons us to prevent its over- 
throw, and He declares that in the hour when it is im- 
periled the magistrate shall not bear the sword in vain, 
but shall be " the minister of God, a revenger to exe- 
cute wrath upon him that doeth evil," and that they 
who rise up against lawful authority, and " resist the 
power, resist the ordinance of God, and they that re- 
sist shall receive to themselves damnation." Patriot- 
ism, then, comes to the baptism of Christian duty, 
and for the hour when just government and righteous 
authority are periled, the duty is one of sternness, and 
the sword of the magistrate is its symbol. 

T. M. Eddy. 



THE QUEEN OF FRANCE AND THE SPIRIT OF 
CHIVALRY. 

IT is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the 
Queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles ; 
and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly 
seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. 

I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and 
cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move 
in, glittering like a morning star, full of life and splen- 
dor and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what a 
heart must I have to contemplate, without emotion, 
that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream, when 
she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, 
distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged 
to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed 
in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have 
lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation 



warren's select readings. 223 

of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of 
cavaliers. 

I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped 
from their scabbards to avenge even a look that 
threatened her with insult ! But the age of chivalry 
is gone, that of sophisters, economists, and calcu- 
lators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is 
extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we 
behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that 
proud submission, that dignified obedience, that sub- 
ordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in 
servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The 
unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nation, 
the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise 
is gone ! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that 
chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, 
which inspired courage while it mitigated ferocity, 
which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which 
vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its gross- 
ness. — E. Burke. 



THE FALL OF THE PEMBERTON MILL. 

A description of the terrible disaster which took place at the 
Pemberton Mills, in the city of Lawrence, Mass., in i860. 

THE silent city steeped and bathed itself in rose- 
tints ; the river ran red and crimsoned on the 
distant New Hampshire hills : Pemberton, mute and 
cold, frowned across the disc of the climbing sun, 
and dipped, as she had seen it dip before, with blood. 
The day broke softly, the snow melted, and the wind 
blew warm from the river. 



224 warren's select readings. 

Sene was a little dizzy this morning — the constant 
palpitation of the floors always made her dizzy after a 
wakeful night — and so her colored threads danced 
out of place and troubled her. 

Del Ivory, working beside her, said : " How the 
mill shakes. What 's going on ? " 

" It 's the new machinery they 're histing in," ob- 
served the overseer, carelessly. " Great improvements, 
but very, very heavy ; they calc'late on getting it all 
into place to-day." 

The wind began at last to blow chilly up the stair- 
cases and in at the cracks ; the melted drifts out under 
the walls began to harden ; the sun dipped above the 
dam ; the mill dimmed slowly ; shadows crept down 
between the frames. 

" It 's time for lights," said Meg Match, and swore 
a little at her spools. 

" Del," said Sene, " I think to-morrow " — she stop- 
ped. Something strange happened to her frame ; it 
jarred, buzzed, snapped, the thread untwisted and flew 
out of place. 

"Curious," she said, and looked up, — looked up 
to see her overseer turn wildly, clap his hands to his 
head, and fall ; to hear a shriek from Del that froze 
her blood ; to see the solid ceiling gape above her ; to 
see the walls and windows stagger ; to see iron pillars 
reel, and vast machinery throw up its giant arms, and 
a tangle of human faces blanche and writhe ! She 
sprang as the floor sunk. As pillar after pillar gave 
way, she bounded up an inclined plane, with the gulf 
yawning after her. It gained upon her, leaped at her, 
caught her; beyond were the stairs and an open door; 



WARREN'S SELECT READINGS. 225 

she threw out her arms and struggled on with hands 
and knees, tripped in the gearing, and saw, as she fell, 
a square oaken beam above her yield and crash ; it 
was of a fresh, red color ; she dimly wondered why, 
as she felt her hands slip, her knees slide, support, 
time, place, and reason, go utterly out. 

At ten minutes before five, on Tuesday, the tenth of 
January, the Pemberton Mill, all of the seven hundred 
and fifty hands being at that time on duty, fell to the 
ground. At ten minutes before five, Sene's father 
heard what he thought to be the rumble of an earth- 
quake under his very feet, and stood with bated breath 
waiting for the crash. As nothing further appeared 
to happen, he took his stick and limped out into the 
street. A crowd surged through it from end to end. 
Women with white lips were counting the mills — 
Pacific, Atlantic, Washington — Pemberton. Where 
was Pemberton ? Where Pemberton had blazed with 
its lamps last night, and hummed with its iron lips, 
this evening a cloud of dust — black, silent, horrible 
— now puffed a hundred feet into the air. 

Asenath opened her eyes after a time. Beautiful 
green and purple lights had been dancing about her, 
but she had no thoughts. It occurred to her now that 
she must have been struck upon the head. The church- 
clocks were striking " eight." A bonfire, which had 
been built at a distance to light the citizens in the 
work of rescue, cast a little gleam in through the 
debris across her two hands, which lay clasped together 
at her side. One of her fingers she saw was gone ; it 
was the finger which held Dick's little engagement 
ring. The red beam lay across her forehead, and drops 
dripped from it upon her eyes. Her feet, still tangled 



226 warren's select readings. 

in the gearing which had tripped her, were buried be- 
neath a pile of bricks. A broad piece of flooring, that 
had fallen slantwise, roofed her in, and saved her from 
the mass of iron-work overhead, which would have 
crushed the breath out of Hercules. Fragments of 
looms, shafts, and pillars were in heaps about. Some 
one whom she could not see was dying just behind 
her. A little girl who worked in her room — a mere 
child — was crying, between her groans, for her mother. 
Del Ivory sat in a little open space, cushioned about 
with reels of cotton ; she had a shallow gash upon her 
cheek ; she was wringing her hands. They were at 
work from the outside, sawing entrances through the 
labyrinth of planks. A dead woman lay close by, and 
Sene saw them draw her out. One of the pretty Irish 
girls was crushed quite out of sight; only one hand 
was free ; she moved it feebly. They could hear her 
calling for Jimmy Mahony, Jimmy Mahony ! and would 
they be sure and give him back the handkerchief? 
Poor Jimmy Mahony ! By and by she called no more, 
and in a little while the hand was still. 

The other side of the slanting flooring some one 
prayed aloud. She had a little baby at home; she 
was asking God to take care of it for her ; " for Christ's 
sake," she said. Sene listened long for the " amen," 
but it was never spoken. 

At that moment she heard a cry — "Fire! fire! 
God Almighty help them ? The ruins are on fire ! " 

A man working over the debris from the outside had 
taken the notion, it being rather dark just there, to 
carry a lantern with him. A voice cried from the crowd, 
" Away ! away ! don't stay there with that light." 

But while this voice yet sounded, it was the dread- 



warren's select readings. 227 

ful fate of the man with the lantern to let it fall, 
and it broke on the ruined mass. That was at nine 
o'clock. What there was to be seen from then till 
morning, could never be forgotten. A network, 
twenty feet high, of rods and girders, of beams, 
pillars, stairways, roofing, ceiling, walling, wrecks of 
looms, shafts, twisters, pulleys, bobbins, mules, locked 
and intertwined ; wrecks of human creatures wedged 
in ; a face that you knew, turned up at you from 
some pit, which twenty-four hours' hewing could 
not open ; a voice you knew crying after you from 
God knows where ; a mass of long fair hair visible 
here, a foot there ; three fingers of a hand over there ; 
the snow bright red under foot; charred limbs and 
helpless trunks tossed about; strong men carrying 
covered things by you, at sight of which other strong 
men have fainted; the little yellow jet that flared up, 
and died in smoke, and flared again, leaped out, licked 
the cotton bales, tasted the oiled machinery, crunched 
the netted wood, danced on the heaped-up stone, 
threw its cruel arms high into the night, roared for 
joy at helpless firemen, and swallowed wreck, death, 
and life together out of your sight — the lurid things 
stand alone in the gallery of tragedy. 

The child who had called for her mother began to 
sob out that she was afraid to die alone. 

"Come here, Mollie," said Sene; "can you crawl 
around ? " Molly crawled around. 

" Put your head in my lap, and your arms about my 
waist, and I will put my hands in yours — so, there ! 
I guess that 's better, is n't it ? " 

But they had not given them up yet. In the 
still unburned rubbish at the right, some one had 



228 warren's select readings. 

wrenched an opening within a foot of Sene's face. 
They clawed at the solid iron pintles like savage 
things. A fireman fainted in the smoke. 

" Give it up ! " cried the crowd from behind. " It 
can't be done ! fall back " — then hushed, awe-struck. 
An old man was crawling along on his hands and 
knees over the heated bricks. He was a very old 
man. His gray hair blew about in the wind. 

" I want my little gal ! " he said, " Can't anybody 
tell me where to find my little gal ? " 

A rough fellow pointed in perfect silence through 
the smoke. 

" I '11 have her out yet. I am an old man, but I can 
help. She 's my little gal, ye see. Hand me that 
there dipper of water ; it 11 keep her from choking, 
maybe. Now, keep cheery, Sene. Your old father '11 
get you out Keep up good heart, child. That 's it." 

" It 's no use, father. Don't feel so bad, father. I 
don't mind it very much." He hacked at the timber ; 
he tried to laugh ; he bewildered himself with his 
cheerful words. 

" No more ye need n't, Senath ; for it '11 be over in 
a minute. Don't be downcast yet. We '11 have ye 
safe at home before ye know it. Drink a little more 
water; do now. They'll get at ye now, sure." 

But out above the crackle and the roar a woman's 
voice rang like a bell : 

"We're going home, to die no more." 

A child's notes quivered in the chorus. From sealed 
and unseen graves white young lips swelled the glad 

refrain : 

"We're going, going home." 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 229 

The crawling smoke turned yellow, turned red; 
voice after voice broke and hushed utterly. One only 
sang on like silver. It flung defiance down at death. 
It chimed into the lurid sky without a tremor. For 
One stood beside her in the furnace, and his form was 
like unto the form of the Son of God. Why should 
not Asenath sing ? 

"Senath," cried the old man out upon the burning 
bricks ; he was scorched now from his gray hair to his 
patched boots. The answer came triumphantly : 
"To die no more, no more, no more." 

" Sene, little Sene ! " 

Some one pulled him back. — Elizabeth S. Phelps. 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 

NO stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell, 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothock 
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning bell; 



23O WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothock. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay ; 

All things were joyful on that day; 

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess, 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 

Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, 

And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 

And I '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock." 

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound; 
The bubbles rose and burst around; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; 
He scoured the seas for many a day; 






warren's select readings. 231 

And now, grown rich with plundered store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 



So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see the sun on high; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, " the breaker's roar ? 
For methinks we should be near the shore." 
" Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
"Oh, God! it is the Inchcape Rock!" 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; 
He cursed himself in his despair; 
The waves rush in on every side; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But even in his dying fear, 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, — 
A sound, as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
The fiend below was ringing his knell. 

Robert Southey. 






232 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

NIAGARA. 

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe 
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on 
Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set 
His rainbow on thy forehead : and the cloud 
Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
Thy voice of thunder, power to speak of him 
Eternally — bidding the lip of man 
Keep silence — and upon thy rocky altar pour 
Incense of awe-struck praise. 

Ah ! who can dare 
To lift the insect trump of earthly hope, 
Or love, or sorrow — 'mid the peal sublime 
Of thy tremendous hymn ? Even ocean shrinks 
Back from thy brotherhood : and all his waves 
Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem 
To sleep like a spent laborer — and recall 
His wearied billows from their vexing play, 
And lull them to a cradle calm : but thou, 
With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
Dost rest not, night or day. 

The morning stars 
When first they sang o'er young creation's birth, 
Heard thy deep anthem ; and those recking fires, 
That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 
This solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
On thy unending volume. Every leaf, 
That lifts itself within thy wide domain, 
Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
Yet trembles at the baptism. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 233 

Lo ! — yon birds 
Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing 
Amid thy mist and foam. 'T is meet for them 
To touch thy garment's hem, and lightly stir 
The snowy leaflets of thy vapor-wreath, 
For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud, 
Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven, 
Without reproof. But as for us, it seems 
Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak 
Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint 
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, 
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, 
Were profanation. 

Thou dost make the soul 
A wondering witness of thy majesty, 
But as it presses with delirious joy 
To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step, 
And tame its rapture, with the humbling view 
Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
In the dread presence of the Invisible, 
As if to answer to its God through thee. 

Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 



THE BUILDERS. 



ALL are architects of Fate, 
Working in these walls of Time ; 
Some with massive deeds and great, 
Some with ornaments of rhyme. 

Nothing useless is, or low; 

Each thing in its place is best; 



20* 



234 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

And what seems but idle show 
Strengthens and supports the rest. 

For the structure that we raise, 
Time is with materials filled ; 

Our to-days and yesterdays 

Are the blocks with which we build. 

Truly shape and fashion these; 

Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
Think not, because no man sees, 

Such things will remain unseen. 

In the elder days of Art, 

Builder wrought with greatest care 

Each minute and unseen part ; 
For the gods see everywhere. 

Let us do our work as well, 
Both the unseen and the seen; 

Make the house, where gods may dwell, 
Beautiful, entire, and clean. 

Else our lives are incomplete, 
Standing in these walls of Time, 

Broken stairways, where the feet 
Stumble as they seek to climb. 

Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
With a firm and ample base ; 

And ascending and secure 

Shall to-morrow find its place. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 235 

Thus alone can we attain 

To those turrets, where the eye 

Sees the world as one vast plain, 
And one boundless reach of sky. 

Longfellozv. 



THE THREE BELLS. 

BENEATH the low-hung night cloud 
That raked her splintering mast, 
The good ship settled slowly, 
The cruel leak gained fast. 

Over the awful ocean 

Her signal-guns pealed out; 

Dear God! was that thy answer 
From the horror round about? 

A voice came down the wild wind : 

" Ho ! ship ahoy ! " its cry ; 
"Our stout Three Bells of Glasgow 

Shall lay till daylight by!" 

Hour after hour crept slowly, 

Yet on the heaving swells 
Tossed up and down the ship-lights, 

The lights of the Three Bells ! 

And ship to ship made signals, 
Man answered back to man, 

While oft, to cheer and hearten, 
The Three Bells nearer ran ; 



236 warren's select readings. 

And the captain from the taffrail 

Sent down his hopeful cry, 
"Take heart! Hold on!" he shouted, 

"The Three Bells shall lay by!" 

All night across the waters 

The tossing lights shone clear; 

All night from reeling taffrail 
The Three Bells sent her cheer. 

And when the dreary watches 
Of storm and darkness passed, 

Just as the wreck lurched under, 
All souls were saved at last. 

Sail on, Three Bells, forever, 

In grateful memory sail ! 
Ring out, Three Bells of rescue, 

Above the wave and gale ! 

Type of the Love eternal, 

Repeat the Master's cry, 
As tossing through our darkness 

The lights of God draw nigh ! 

y. G. Wliittier, 



GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. 

SHE stood at the bar of justice, 
A creature wan and wild, 
In form too small for a woman, 
In features too old for a child, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 237 

For a look so worn and pathetic 

Was stamped on her pale young face, 

It seemed long years of suffering 
Must have left that silent trace. 

"Your name?" said the judge, as he eyed her 

With kindly look yet keen, 
" Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." 

" And your age ? " — " I am turned fifteen." 
" Well, Mary," and then from a paper 

He slowly and gravely read, 
" You are charged here — I 'm sorry to say it — 

With stealing three loaves of bread. 

"You look not like an offender, 

And I hope that you can show 
The charge to be false. Now, tell me, 

Are you guilty of this, or no ? " 
A passionate burst of weeping 

Was at first her sole reply, 
But she dried her eyes in a moment, 

And looked in the judge's eye. 

" I will tell you just how it was, sir : 

My father and mother are dead, 
And my little brother and sisters 

Were hungry, and asked me for bread. 
At first I earned it for them 

By working hard all day, 
But somehow times were bad, sir, 

And the work all fell away. 

" I could get no more employment ; 
The weather was bitter cold, 



238 warren's select readings. 

The young ones cried and shivered — 
(Little Johnny's but four years old);- 

So, what was I to do, sir? 

I am guilty, but do not condemn; 

I took — oh, was it stealing? — 
The bread to give to them." 

Every man in the court-room — 

Graybeard and thoughtless youth — 
Knew, as he looked upon her, 

That the prisoner spake the truth ; 
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, 

Out from their eyes sprung tears, 
And out from old faded wallets 

Treasures hoarded for years. 

The judge's face was a study — 

The strangest you ever saw — 
As he cleared his throat and murmured 

Something about — the law. 
For one so learned in such matters, 

So wise in dealing with men, 
He seemed, on a simple question, 

Surely puzzled just then. 

But no one blamed him or wondered, 

When at last these words they heard: 
" The sentence of this young prisoner 

Is, for the present, deferred." 
And no one blamed him or wondered, 

When he went to her and smiled, 
And tenderly led from the court-room 

Himself the "guilty" child.— Anon. 






warren's select readings. 239 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 



DAY STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to 
twinkle, 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, 
And dew-drops on her lovely altars sprinkle 

As a libation ! 

Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, 
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 

Incense on high ! 

Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 

The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, 
What numerous emblems of instructive duty 

Your forms create ! 

'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 

A call to prayer! 

Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 

Attest the feebleness of mortal hand; 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn, 

Which God hath planned ! 

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, 
Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 

Its dome the sky! 



240 warren's select readings. 

There, — as in solitude and shade I wander 

Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 

The ways of God — 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers, 

Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 

From loneliest nook ! 

Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 

Weep without sin, and blush without a crime ! 
Oh ! may I deeply learn and ne'er surrender 

Your lore sublime ! 

"Thou wast not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 

Arrayed," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours ! " 
How vain your grandeur ! Oh ! how transitory 

Are human flowers ! 

In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist! 

With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 

Of love to all! 

Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure, 

Blooming o'er fields and wave, by day and night, 
From every source your sanction bids me treasure 

Harmless delight. 

Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 

For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
Each fading calyx a memento mori, 

Yet fount of hope ! 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 24I 

Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! 

Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 

And second birth. 

Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, 

Far from all teachers and from all divines, 
My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining, 

Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
Horace Smith, 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
year, 
Of wailing winds, and native woods, and meadows 

brown and sere, 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove the withered 

leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's 

tread ; 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub 

the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all 

the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 

lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 

flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 

of ours. 
21 Q 



242 warren's select readings. 

The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold 

November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 

ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
mer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
wood, 

And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 
beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls 
the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from up- 
land, glade, and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still 
such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
home, 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 
all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
grance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 

died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 

side; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 243 

In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest 

. cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 

brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 

of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful should perish with the 

flowers. Wm. Cullen Bryant. 



THE APPLE-DUMPLINGS AND GEORGE THE 
THIRD. 

ONCE in the chase, this monarch drooping, 
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping, 

Entered, through curiosity, a cot, 

Where an old crone was hanging on the pot; 
The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, 
In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, 

Had apple-dumplings ready for the pot; 
In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, 
When, lo ! the monarch, in his usual way, 

Like lightning asked, " What 's here ? what 's here ? 
What? what? what? what?" 
Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, 
His eyes with admiration did expand — 

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple; 
" 'T is monstrous, monstrous, monstrous hard," he cried ; 
" What makes the thing so hard ? " The dame replied, 

Low courtesying, " Please your majesty, the apple." 
" Very astonishing, indeed ! strange thing ! " 
(Turning the dumpling round,) rejoined the king, 
" *T is most extraordinary now, all this is — 
It beats the conjurer's capers all to pieces — 



244 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Strange I should never of a dumpling dream ; 
But, Goody, tell me, where, where, where 's the seam ■?" 
(t Sire, there 's no seam," quoth she ; •■ I never knew 
That folks did apple-dumplings sew ! " 
" No ! " cried the staring monarch, with a grin, 
"Then, where, where, where, pray, got the apple in ? " 

Wolcot. 



GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN. 

MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, l8oO. 

I MIND it was but yesterday- — 
The sun was dim, the air was chill; 
Below the town, below the hill, 
The sails of my son's ship did fill — 
My Jacob, who was cast away. 

He said, fj God keep you, mother dear," 
But did not turn to kiss his wife ; 
They had some foolish, idle strife; 
Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, 

And he was proud as any peer. 

Howbeit, that night I took no note 
Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; 
I marked not that the hills looked near, 
Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, 

Through curd-like scud did drive and float. 

Yet with my darling went the joy 
Of autumn woods and meadows brown ; 
I came to hate the little town ; 
It seemed as if the sun went down 

With him, my only darling boy. 






warren's select readings. 245 

It was the middle of the night — 
The sea upon the garden leapt, 
And my son's wife in quiet slept, 
And I, his mother, waked and wept, 

When lo ! there came a sudden light. 

And there he stood ! his seaman's dress 
All wet and dripping seemed, to be ; 
The pale blue fires of the sea 
Dripped from his garments constantly — 

I could not speak through cowardness. 

" I come through night and storm," he said, 
" Through storm and night and death," said he, 
" To kiss my wife, if it so be 
That strife still holds 'twixt her and me, 

For all beyond is Peace," he said. 

"The sea is His, and He who sent 
The wind and wave can sooth© their strife; 
And brief and foolish is our life." 
He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, 

Then sighed, and, like a dream, he went. 

Now, when my darling kissed not me, 
But her — his wife — who did not wake, 
My heart within me seemed to break : 
I swore a vow ! nor thenceforth spake 

Of what my clearer eyes did see. 

And when the slow weeks brought him not, 
Somehow we spoke of aught beside ; 
For she — her hope upheld her pride; 
And I — in me all hope had died, 

And my son passed as if forgot. 



246 warren's select readings. 

It was about the next spring-tide, 
She pined and faded where she stood; 
Yet spake no word of ill or good ; 
She had the hard, cold Edward's blood 

In all her veins — and so she died. 

One time I thought, before she passed, 
To give her peace, but ere I spake 
Methought, " He will be first to break 
The news in heaven," and for his sake 

I held mine back until the last. 

And here I sit, nor care to roam ; 
I only wait to hear his call ; 
I doubt not that this day, next fall, 
Shall see me safe in port; where all 

And every ship at last comes home. 

And you have sailed the Spanish main, 
And know my Jacob ? .... Eh ! Mercy ! 
Ah, God of wisdom ! hath the sea 
Yielded its dead to humble me ! 

My boy ! . . , . my Jacob .... Turn again ! 

Bret Harte. 



NOVEMBER, 



N' 



O sun, no moon, 
No morn, no noon, 
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, 
No sky, no earthly view, 
No distance looking blue, 
No road, no street, no " t' other side the way, 



warren's select readings. 247 

No end to any Row, 

No indications where the Crescents go, 

No top to any steeple, 
No recognitions of familiar people, 

No courtesies for showing 'em, 

No knowing 'em, 
No travelling at all, no locomotion, 
No inkling of the way, no motion, 

" No go," by land or ocean, 

No mail, no post, 

No news from any foreign coast, 
No park, no ring, no afternoon gentility, 

No company, no nobility, 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 

No comfortable feel in any member, 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 

No fruits, no flow'rs, no leaves, no birds. 
November ! Thomas Hood. 



SUMMER. 



AND what is so rare as a day in June ? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays; 
Whether we look or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 



248 warren's select readings. 

The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun ; 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives. 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — ■ 
In the nice ear of nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 
'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing. 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 249 

And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now, 

Everything is upward striving ; 
Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

'T is the natural way of living. 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 

James R. Lowell. 



WINTER. 



DOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 
From the snow five thousand summers old; 
On open wold and hill-top bleak 

It had gathered all the cold, 
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; 
It carried a shiver everywhere 
From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; 



250 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 



All night by the white stars' fr<5sty gleams 
He groined his arches and matched his beams; 
Slender and clear were his crystal spars 
As the lashes of light that trim the stars ; 
He sculptured every summer delight 
In his halls and chambers out of sight; 
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipped 
Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
Bending to counterfeit a breeze; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear, 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond drops, 

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one; 

No mortal builder's most rare device 
Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 
'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay 
In his depths serene through the summer day, 
Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 

Lest the happy model should be lost, 
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 

By the elfin builders of the frost. 



warren's select readings. 251 

Within the hall are song and laughter; 

The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly ; 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; 

The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks, 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 

But the wind without was eager and sharp, 

Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 

And rattles and wrings 

The icy strings, 

Singing, in dreary monotone, 

A Christmas carol of its own, 

Whose burden still, as he might guess, 

Was " Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! " 

James R. Lowell. 



ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. 

LOST! lost! lost! 
A gem of countless price, 
Cut from the living rock 
And graved in Paradise ; 



252 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Set round with three times eight 
Large diamonds, clear and bright, 

And each with sixty smaller ones, 
All changeful as the light. 

Lost where the thoughtless throng 

In fashion's mazes wind, 
Where warbleth fashion's song, 

Leaving a sting behind ; 
Yet to my hand 'twas given 

A golden harp to buy, 
Such as the white-robed choir attune 

To deathless minstrelsy. 

Lost! lost! lost! 

I feel all search is vain; 
That gem of countless cost 

Can ne'er be mine again ; 
I offer no reward, 

For though these heart-strings sever, 
I know that Heaven-intrusted gift 

Is reft away forever. 

But when the sea and land 

Like burning scroll have fled, 
I '11 see it in His hand, 

Who judgeth quick and dead; 
And when of waste and loss 

That man can ne'er repair, 
The dread inquiry meets my soul, 

What shall it answer there? 

Mrs. L. H. Sigourncy. 



warren's select readings. 253 

A WOMAN'S CONCLUSIONS. 

I SAID, if I might go back again 
To the very hour and place of my birth ; 
Might have my life whatever I chose, 
And live it in any part of the earth ; — 

Put perfect sunshine into my sky, 

Banish the shadow of sorrow and doubt; 

Have all my happiness multiplied, 
And all my suffering stricken out; 

If I could have known, in the years now gone, 
The best that a woman comes to know; 

Could have had whatever will make her blest, 
Or whatever she thinks will make her so; 

Have found the highest and -purest bliss, 
That the bridal wreath and ring inclose, 

And gained the one out of all the world 
That my heart as well as my reason chose; 

And if this had been, and I stood to-night 
By my children, lying asleep in their beds, 

And could count in my prayers, for a rosary, 
The shining row of their golden heads ; — 

Yea, I said, if a miracle such as this 

Could be wrought for me, at my bidding, still 

I would choose to have my past as it is, 
And to let my future come as it will ! 

I would not make the path I have trod 

More pleasant or even, more straight or wide ; 



254 warren's select readings. 

Nor change my course the breadth of a hair, 
This way or that way, to either side. 

My past is mine, and I take it all ; 

Its weakness, its folly, if you please ; 
Nay, even my sins, if you come to that, 

May have been my helps, not hindrances ! 

If I saved my body from the flames 

Because that once I had burned my hand ; 

Or kept myself from a greater sin 

By doing a less — you will understand. 

It was better I suffered a little pain, 

Better I sinned for a little time, 
If the smarting warned me back from death, 

And the sting of sin withheld from crime. 

Who knows its strength by trial, will know 
What strength must be set against a sin ; 

And how temptation is overcome, 

He has learned who has felt its power within ! 

And who knows how a life at the last may show ? 

Why, look at the moon from where we stand! 
Opaque, uneven, you say ; yet it shines, 

A luminous sphere, complete and grand! 

So let my past stand, just as it stands, 
And let me now, as I may, grow old ; 

I am what I am, and my life for me 
Is the best, or it had not been, I hold. 

Phoebe Cary. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 255 

THE CHARITY DINNER. 

Time : half-past six o'clock. Place : The London Tavern. 
Occasion : Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Dis- 
tribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the natives of the 
Cannibal Islands. 

ON entering the room, we find more than two hun- 
dred noblemen and gentlemen already assembled ; 
and the number is increasing every minute. The prep- 
arations are now complete, and we are in readiness 
to receive the chairman. He advances smilingly to 
his post at the principal table, amid deafening and long- 
continued cheers. 

The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield 
up ourselves to the enjoyments of eating and drink- 
ing. These important duties finished, the real busi- 
ness of the evening commences. The usual loyal 
toasts having been given, the noble chairman rises, 
and, after passing his fingers through his hair, he 
places his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, 
gives a short preparatory cough, accompanied by a 
vacant stare round the room, and commences as fol- 
lows: — 

" My Lords and Gentlemen : — It is with feelings 
of mingled pleasure and regret that I appear before 
you this evening — of pleasure, to find that this excel- 
lent and world-wide known society is in so promising 
a condition; and of regret, that you have not chosen 
a worthier chairman ; in fact, one who is more capable 
than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital 
importance as this. {Loud cheen.) But, although I 
may be unworthy of the honor, I am proud to state 
that I have been a subscriber to this society from its 



256 warren's select readings. 

commencement; feeling sure that nothing can tend 
more to the advancement of civilization, social reform, 
fireside comfort, and domestic economy among the 
Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. 
{Tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) 
Here, in this England of ours, which is an island sur- 
rounded by water, as I suppose you all know — or, as 
our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses 
the same fact, ' England bound in by the triumphant 
sea ' — what, down the long vista of years, have con- 
duced more to our successes in arms, and arts, and 
song, than blankets ? Indeed, I never gaze upon a 
blanket without 'my thoughts reverting fondly to the 
days of my early childhood. Where should we all 
have been now but for those warm and fleecy cover- 
ings ? My Lords and Gentlemen ! Our first and tender 
memories are all associated with blankets : blankets 
when in our nurses' arms, blankets in our cradles, 
blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads 
in our school- days, and blankets to our marital four- 
posters now. Therefore, I say, it becomes our bounden 
duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, as 
Englishmen — to initiate the untutored savage, the 
wild and somewhat uncultivated denizen of the prairie, 
into the comfort and warmth of blankets ; and to sup- 
ply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, 
seasonable, luxurious, and useful appendages. At 
such a moment as this, the lines of another poet strike 
familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are some- 
thing like this — ah — ah — 

• Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, 
And to — to do — a — ' 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 257 



" I forget the rest. {Loud cheers.) Do we grudge 
our money for such a purpose ? I answer, fearlessly, 
No! Could we spend it better at home? I reply, 
most emphatically, No ! True, it may be said that 
there are thousands of our own people who, at this 
moment, are wandering about the streets of this great 
metropolis without food to eat or rags to cover them. 
But what have we to do with them ? 

" Our thoughts, our feelings, and our sympathies 
are all wafted on the wings of charity to the dear and 
interesting Cannibals in the far-off islands of the Great 
Pacific Ocean. (Hear, hear.) Besides, have not our 
own poor the workhouses to go to ; the luxurious 
straw of the casual wards to repose upon, if they 
please ; the mutton-broth to bathe in ; and the ever 
toothsome, although somewhat scanty allowance of 
' toke ' provided for them ! 

" If people choose to be poor, is it our business ? 
And let it ever be remembered that our own people 
are not savages and man-eaters; and, therefore, our 
philanthropy would be wasted upon them. (Over- 
whelming applause^) To return to our subject. To 
show the gratitude of the Cannibals for the benefits 
conferred upon them, I will just mention that, within 
the last few weeks, his illustrious Majesty, Hokee Po- 
key Nankey Fum the First — surnamed by his loving 
subjects ' The Magnificent,' from the fact of his wearing 
on Sundays a shirt-collar and an eye-glass as full court 
costume — has forwarded the president of the society a 
very handsome present, consisting of two live alli- 
gators, a boa-constrictor, and three pots of preserved 
Indian, to be eaten with toast ; and I am told, by com- 
petent judges, that it is quite equal to Russian caviare. 



258 warren's select readings. 

" My Lords and Gentlemen ! I will not trespass on 
your patience by making any further remarks, know- 
ing how incompetent I am — no, no ! I don't mean 
that — knowing how incompetent you all are — no ! 
I don't mean that either — but you all know what I 
mean. Like the ancient Roman lawgiver, I am in a 
peculiar position ; for the fact is, I cannot sit down — 
I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying 
that if there ever was an institution, it is this institu- 
tion ; and, therefore, I beg to propose, ' Prosperity to 
the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top- 
Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' " 

The toast having been cordially responded to, his 
lordship calls upon Mr. Duffer, the secretary, to read 
the report. Whereupon that gentleman, who is of a 
bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are 
concealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces 
the necessary document, and reads in the orthodox 
manner : — 

"Thirtieth Half- Yearly Report of the Society for 
the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots to the 
Natives of the Cannibal Islands. 

" The Society having now reached its fifteenth anni- 
versary, the committee of management beg to con- 
gratulate their friends and subscribers on the success 
that has been attained. 

" When the Society first commenced its labors, the 
generous and noble-minded natives of the islands, 
together with their King, — a chief whose name is 
well known in connection with one of the most ster- 
ling and heroic ballads of this country, — attired them- 
selves in the light but somewhat insufficient costume 
of their tribe, viz., little before, nothing behind, and 






warren's select readings. 259 

no sleeves, with the occasional addition of a pair of 
spectacles ; but now, thanks to this useful association, 
the upper classes of the Cannibals seldom appear 
in public without their bodies being enveloped in 
blankets, and their feet encased in top-boots. 

" When the latter useful articles were first intro- 
duced into the islands, the Society's agents had a vast 
amount of trouble to prevail upon the natives to ap- 
ply them to their proper purpose, and, in their work 
of civilization, no less than twenty of its representa- 
tives were massacred, roasted, and eaten. But we per- 
severed j we overcame the natural antipathy of the 
Cannibals to wear any covering to their feet, until, 
after a time, the natives discovered the warmth and 
utility of boots; and now they can scarcely be induced 
to remove them until they fall off through old age. 

" During the past half-year, the Society has distri- 
buted no less than seventy-one blankets and one 
hundred and twenty-eight pairs of top-boots ; and 
your committee, therefore, feel convinced that they 
will not be accused of inaction. But a great work is 
still before them ; and they earnestly invite co-opera- 
tion, in order that they may be enabled to supply the 
whole of the Cannibals with these comfortable, nutri- 
tious, and savory articles. 

" As the balance-sheet is rather a lengthy docu- 
ment, I will merely quote a few of the figures for your 
satisfaction. We have received during the last half 
year, in subscriptions, donations, and legacies, the sum 
of 5403/. 6s. S^d. We have disbursed for advertising, 
etc., 222/. 6s. 2d. Rent, rates, and taxes, 305/. \os. 
o\d. Seventy-one pairs of blankets, at 20s. per pair, 
have taken 71/. exactly; and one hundred and twenty- 



260 warren's select readings. 

eight pairs of top-boots, at 215. per pair, cost us 134/. 
some odd shillings. The salaries and expenses of 
management amount to 1307/. 4s. 2\d. ; and sundries, 
which include committee meetings and travelling ex- 
penses, have absorbed the remainder of the sum, and 
amount to 3268/. gs. \\d. So that we have expended 
on the dear and interesting Cannibals the sum of 205/., 
and the remainder of the sum — amounting to 5198/. 
— has been devoted to the working expenses of the 
Society." 

The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his 
seat amid hearty applause, which continues until Mr. 
Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy 
and discursive speech — in which the phrases, " the 
Corporation of the City of London," " suit and ser- 
vice," "ancient guild," "liberties and privileges," and 
■' Court of Common Council," figure frequently — states 
that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has 
said ; and has, moreover, never listened to a more com- 
prehensive and exhaustive document than the one just 
read, which is calculated to satisfy even the most ob- 
tuse and hard-hearted of individuals. 

" Clever man, Gobbleton ! " says a Common Council- 
man, sitting near us, to his neighbor, a languid swell 
of the period. 

"Ya-as, vewy! Wemarkable style of owatowy — 
gweat fluency," replies the other. 

But attention, if you please ! for M. Hector de 
Longuebeau, the great French writer, is on his legs. 
He is staying in England for a short time, to become 
acquainted with our manners and customs. 

" Milors and Gentlemans ! " commences the 
Frenchman, elevating his eyebrows and shrugging his 






warren's select readings. 261 

shoulders. " Milors and Gentlemans : You excellent 
chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have 
say to me, ' Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat 
I have no toast to make ; but he nudge my elbow ver 
soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von 
Frenchman can make proper ; and, derefore, wid your 
kind permission, I vill make de toast. ' De brevete is 
de sole of de feet,' as you great philosophere, Dr. 
Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de 
Pronouncing Dictionnaire ; and, derefore, I vill not 
say ver moch to de point. Ven I vas a boy, about so 
moch tall, and used for to promenade de streets of 
Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my 
shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to- 
have arrive. I vas to begin de vorld as von garcon — 
or, vat you call in dis countrie, von vaitaire in a cafe 
— vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all to 
put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von 
old bleu blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, 
just for to keep myself fit to be showed at ; but, tank 
goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since 
dat time, and I have rose myself, seulement par mon 
industrie et perseverance. {Loud cheers?) Ah ! mes 
amis ! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de ora- 
tion magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobble- 
down, I feel dat it is von great privilege for von stranger 
to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as dat 
grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de 
voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis ; and who is 
also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chef of you 
common scoundrel. Milors and Gentlemans, I feel dat 
I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von 
common scoundrelman myself; but, helas ! dat plaisir 



262 warren's select readings. 

are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great cite, 
not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies 
joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors 
and Gentlemans ! De immortal Shakispeare he have 
write, ' De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' 
It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entranc- 
ing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking 
eye of de beautiful lady ! It is de ladies who do 
sweeten de cares of life. It is de ladies who are de 
guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do 
cheer, but not inebriate, and, derefore, vid all homage 
to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, ' De 
Ladies ! God bless dem all ! ' " 

And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect 
tempest of cheers. 

A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions 
is read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chair- 
man, and the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society 
for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among 
the Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. 

Litchfield Mosely. 



GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. 

OH, what's the matter? what's the matter? 
What is 't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
That evermore his teeth they chatter, 

Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 

Good duffel gray, and flannel fine ; 
He has a blanket on his back, 

And coats enough to smother nine. 



warren's select readings. 263 

In March, December, and in July, 

'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
At night, at morning, and at noon, 

'T is all the same with Harry Gill ; 
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 

And who so stout of limb as he? 
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; 

His voice was like the voice of three. 
Old Goody Blake was old and poor, 

111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; 
And any man who passed her door, 

Might see how poor a hut she had. 

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 

And then her three hours' work at night ! 
Alas ! 't was hardly worth the telling, 

It would not pay for candle-light. 
This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, — 

Her hut was on a cold hill-side ; 
And in that country coals are dear, 

For they come far by wind and tide. 

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 
Two poor old dames, as I have known, 

Will often live in one small cottage; 
But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 

'Twas well enough when summer came, 
The long, warm, lightsome summer day ; 



264 warren's select readings. 

Then at her door the canty dame 
Would sit, as any linnet gay. 

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 

Oh ! then how her old bones would shake ! 
You would have said, if you had met her, 

'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 
Her evenings then were dull and dead : 

Sad case it was, as you may think, 
For very cold to go to bed, 

And then for cold not sleep a wink. 

Oh ! joy for her ! whene'er in winter, 

The winds at night had made a rout, 
And scattered many a lusty splinter, 

And many a rotten bough about. 
Yet never had she, well or sick, 

As every man who knew her says, 
A pile beforehand, wood or stick, 

Enough to warm her for three days. 

Now when the frost was past enduring, 

And made her poor old bones to ache, 
Could anything be more alluring, 

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
And now and then it must be said, 

When her old bones were cold and chill, 
She left her fire, or left her bed, 

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Now Harry he had long suspected 
This trespass of old Goody Blake, 

And vowed that she should be detected, 
And he on her would vengeance take; 






265 

And oft from his warm fire he 'd go, 
And to the fields his road would take, 

And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
He watched to seize old Goody Blake. 

And once behind a rick of barley, 

Thus looking out did Harry stand ; 
The moon was full and shining clearly, 

And crisp with frost the stubble land : — 
He hears a noise, — he 's all awake, — 

Again! — on tiptoe down the hill 
He softly creeps — 'Tis Goody Blake! 

She 's at the hedge of Harry Gill. 

Right glad was he when he beheld her : 

Stick after stick did Goody pull ; 
He stood behind a bush of elder, 

Till she had filled her apron full. — ■ 
When with her load she turned about, 

The by-road back again to take, 
He started forward with a shout, 

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 

And by the arm he held her fast ; 
And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 

And cried, " I 've caught you then at last ! " 
Then Goody, who had nothing said, 

Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 

To God who is the judge of all. 

She prayed, her withered hand upre*aring, 
While Harry held her by the arm, — 
23 



266 warren's select readings. 

" God ! who art never out of hearing, 
Oh ! may he never more be warm ! " — 

The cold, cold moon above her head, 
Thus on her knees did Goody pray ; 

Young Harry heard what she had said, 
And icy cold he turned away. 

He went complaining, all the morrow, 

That he was cold and very chill : 
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, — 

Alas that day for Harry Gill ! 
That day he wore a riding-coat, 

But not a whit the warmer he ; 
Another was on Thursday brought, 

And, ere the Sabbath, he had three, 

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 

And blankets were about him pinned : 
Yet still his jaws and teeth they chatter, 

Like a loose casement in the wind. 
And Harry's flesh it fell away; 

And all who see him say 'tis plain, 
That live as long as live he may, 

He never will be warm again. 

No word to any man he utters, 

Abed or up, to young or old ; 
But ever to himself he mutters, 

" Poor Harry Gill is very cold! " — 
Abed or up, by night or day, 

His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 

Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 

William Wordsworth. 



warren's select readings. 267 

GOOD READING THE GREATEST ACCOMPLISH- 
MENT. 

THERE is one accomplishment, in particular, which 
I would earnestly recommend to you. Cultivate 
assiduously the ability to read well. I stop to par- 
ticularize this, because it is so very much neglected, 
and because it is such an elegant and charming 
accomplishment. Where one person is really inter- 
ested by music, twenty are pleased by good reading. 
Where one person is capable of becoming a skilful 
musician, twenty may become good readers. Where 
there is one occasion suitable for the exercise of 
musical talent, there are twenty for that of good 
reading. 

The culture of the voice necessary for reading well, 
gives a delightful charm to the same voice in conver- 
sation. Good reading is the natural exponent and 
vehicle of all good things. It is the most effective of 
all commentaries upon the works of genius. It seems 
to bring dead authors to life again, and makes us sit 
down familiarly with the great and good of all ages. 

Did you ever notice what life and power the Holy 
Scriptures have when well read? Have you ever 
heard of the wonderful effects produced by Elizabeth 
Fry on the criminals of Newgate, by simply reading 
to them the parable of the Prodigal Son ? Princes 
and peers of the realm, it is said, counted it a privilege 
to stand in the dismal corridors, among felons and 
murderers, merely to share with them the privilege 
of witnessing the marvellous pathos which genius, 
taste, and culture could infuse into that simple story. 

What a fascination there is in really good reading ! 



268 warren's select readings. 

What a power it gives one ! In the hospital, in the 
chamber of the invalid, in the nursery, in the domestic 
and in the social circle, among chosen friends and 
companions, how it enables you to minister to the 
amusement, the comfort, the pleasure of dear ones, as 
no other art or accomplishment can. No instrument 
of man's devising can reach the heart as does that 
most wonderful instrument — the human voice. It is 
God's special gift and endowment to his chosen crea- 
tures. Fold it not away in a napkin. 

If you would double the value of all your other 
acquisitions, if you would add immeasurably to your 
own enjoyment and to your power of promoting the 
enjoyment of others, cultivate, with incessant care, 
this divine gift. No music below the skies is equal to 
that of pure, silvery speech from the lips of a man 
or woman of high culture. — John S. Hart. 



MOTHER AND POET. 

DEAD ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
Dead ! both my boys ! when you sit at the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 

Yet I was a poetess only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; 
But this woman, this, who is agonized here, 

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
Forever, instead ! 



warren's select readings. 269 

What 's art for a woman ? To hold on her knees 
Both darlings ! to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little ! to sew by degrees, 

And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat; 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them — It stings there ! / made them, 
indeed, 
Speak plain the word " country," — / taught them, 
no doubt, 
That a country 's a thing men should die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant cast out. 

And when their eyes flashed ! O my beautiful eyes ! 
/ exulted ! Nay, let them go forth at the wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 
When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then 
one kneels ! — 

God ! how the house feels ! 

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled 

With my kisses, of camp life and glory, and how 
They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be 
spoiled, 
In return would fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona was free ! " 

And some one came out of the cheers in the street, 
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
My Guido was dead ! — I fell down at his feet 
While they cheered in the street. 
23* 



270 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

I bore it ! friends soothed me ; my grief looked sub- 
lime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on, and walked with, recalling the time 
When the first grew immortal, while both of us 
strained 

To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand : " I was not to faint. 

One loved me for two ; would be with me erelong ! 
And 'Viva 1' Italia ! ' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add he " was safe, and aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls, was imprest 

It was Guido himself who knew what I could bear, 
And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, 
To live on for the rest." 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph line 
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta: 
"Shot. Tell his mother." Ah! ah! "his," "their" 
mother; not " mine." 
No voice says " my mother " again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot ? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, 
They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? 
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through That Love and that Sorrow which recon- 
cile so 

The Above and Below. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 2/1 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through 
the dark 
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray, 
How we common mothers stand desolate; mark 
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned 
away, 

And no last word to say ! 

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep 
one; 
'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. 

And, when Italy 's made, for what end is it done, 
If we have not a son ? 

Ah ! ah ! ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ? 

When the guns of Cavalli, with final retort, 
Have cut the game short ? 

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, 
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, 
and red, 
When you have your country, from mountain to sea, 
When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And /have my dead) — 

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low 
And burn your lights faintly ! My country is there, 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow ; 
My Italy 's there, — with my brave civic Pair, 
To disfranchise despair ! 



2/2 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Dead ! one of them shot by the sea in the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 
Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast, 
You want a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me. 

Elizabeth B. Browning. 



TWO LITTLE PAIRS OF BOOTS. 

TWO little pairs of boots to-night 
Before the fire are drying, 
Two little pairs of tired feet 
In a trundle-bed are lying; 
The tracks they left upon the floor 
Make me feel much like sighing. 

Those little boots with copper toes, 

They ran the live-long day; 
And oftentimes I almost wish 

That they were miles away ; 
So tired I am to hear so oft 

Their heavy tramp at play. 

They walk about the new-ploughed ground, 

Where mud in plenty lies; 
They roll it up in marbles round, 

Then bake it into pies; 
And then at night upon the floor 

In every shape it dries. 

To-day, I was disposed to scold; 

But when I look, to-night, 
At those little boots before the fire, 

With copper toes so bright, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 273 

I think how sad my heart would be 
To put them out of sight. 

For in a trunk, up-stairs, I 've laid 

Two socks of white and blue; 
If called to put those boots away, 

O God ! what should I do ? 
I mourn that there are not to-night 

Three pairs instead of two. 

I mourn because I thought how nice 

My neighbor 'cross the way 
Could keep her carpets all the year 

From getting worn or gray; 
Yet well I know she 'd smile to own 

Some little boots to-day. 

We mothers weary get and worn 

Over our load of care ; 
But how we speak to these little ones 

Let each of us beware ; 
For what would our firesides be to-night 

If no little boots were there? — Anon. 



THE PETRIFIED FERN. 

IN a valley, centuries ago, 
Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, — 
Veining delicate, and fibres tender, — 
Waving when the wind crept down so low ; 

Rushes tall, and moss and grass grew round it, 
Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, 
Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, 

S 



274 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

But no foot of man e'er trod that way ; 
Earth was young, and keeping holiday. 

Monster fishes swam the silent main, 

Stately forests waved their giant branches, 
Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, 

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain, 
Nature revelled in grand mysteries; 
But the little fern was not of these, 
Did not number with the hills and trees ; 
Only grew and waved its sweet, wild way,- 
No one came to note it day by day. 



Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, 

Heaved the rocks, and changed the mighty motion 

Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean, 
Moved the plain, and shook the haughty wood, 

Crushed the little fern in soft, moist clay, 

Covered it, and hid it safe away ; 

Oh, the long, long centuries since that day S 

Oh, the agony ! Oh, life's bitter cost ! 

Since that useless little fern was lost! 

Useless? Lost? There came a thoughtful man, 
Searching Nature's secrets, far and deep ; 
From a fissure in a rocky steep 

He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran 
Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, — 
Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and fine, — 
And the fern's life lay in every line ! 
So, I think, God hides some souls away, 
Sweetly to surprise us the last day. — Anoit. 



warren's select readings. 275 

POMPEII. 

PLINY'S account of the eruption of Vesuvius, which 
extended to Pompeii, has been amply verified. On 
the 23d of August, in the year 79, the city was sud- 
denly exposed to a continuous and thick shower of 
ashes as fine as powder, and at the same time streams 
of mud and hot water. At the time of the disaster, 
the city is believed to have contained twenty-five thou- 
sand inhabitants, the greater number of whom took to 
flight, and were saved. Some, however, were struck 
down in making their escape; and others, who took 
shelter within their houses, were either killed by the 
falling of the roofs, or drowned in the sea of mud 
which flowed into the lower apartments. Altogether, 
it has been computed that thirteen hundred persons 
perished. By this sad catastrophe, the city does not 
appear to have been utterly or at once overwhelmed. 
The eruption is believed to have consisted of repeated 
attacks, leaving sufficient intervals for the inhabitants 
to carry off their most valuable articles, or to return 
to find them. After this first and greatest eruption, 
others ensued ; and in a short time the city was effect- 
ually covered, and lost to observation. 

When thus overwhelmed, Pompeii stood on an ele- 
vated part of the sea-shore, into which the small river 
Sarnus, or Sarno, ran on its southern side. Occupy- 
ing a somewhat irregular surface, it offered admirable 
sites for elegant public buildings ; and from the ap- 
pearance of the ruins brought to light, it seems to 
have contained a great variety of temples, and other 
large structures, in the best style of Grecian art. Be- 
hind the town was a fertile plain, spreading upwards 



2y6 warren's select readings. 

towards Vesuvius, and along the coast on each side 
were many pretty villages and populous cities ; among 
others Herculaneum, which shared the same fate. In 
consequence of the silting up of the bay, and other 
changes, Pompeii is now found to be upwards of a 
mile from the sea, while the ancient character of the 
plain for fertility has been greatly deteriorated by suc- 
cessive volcanic eruptions. The crater of Vesuvius, 
from which the city received its death-blow, is about 
five miles distant from the ruins, in a north-easterly 
direction. 

Although it was traditionally known that Pompeii 
was somewhere entombed in this part of Campania, 
few if any attempts were made to discover it ; and it 
was not till 1748 that, in making some excavations, its 
remains were accidentally brought to light. Since 
that period, the Neapolitan government has exerted 
itself to clear the ruins from the rubbish which encum- 
bers them. This, however, has been a tedious and ex- 
pensive process. The mud formed by the steam and 
ashes sent forth by the volcano, and by the torrents of 
rain accompanying the eruption, has hardened in the 
situations into which it poured, and is somewhat diffi- 
cult to remove. The part chiefly cleared is a strip on 
the side next the sea, forming from a fourth to a third 
of the whole city. The wall, however, which environed 
the city on the land side, with the gateways in it, has 
likewise been laid bare. 

♦ " The road by which we approached the city," says 
an English traveller, " brought us to its north-western 
extremity, or the entrance by what is called the gate 
of Herculaneum ; and here, in the company of our 
guide and a local official, we began our explorations. 



Barren's select readings. 277 

The first thing to which we were introduced was the 
massive ruin of a villa, a little to the right of the path- 
way, known as the house of Diomedes, a wealthy Ro- 
man. The extent of this large ruin did not more sur- 
prise us than its open and demolished condition. It 
seems that here, as elsewhere, exposure to the weather 
for a number of years has obliterated some fine speci- 
mens of paintings on the walls, and greatly injured the 
different parts of the structure. We were told that, 
when the building was cleared out, the skeletons of 
seventeen persons were found in a vaulted cellar, into 
which they had rushed for safety. The volcanic mud 
which flowed in had hardened around them ; and when 
excavated, their bodies left impressions in the surround- 
ing material, like moulds for statuary. A piece of the 
incrustation remains on the wall, impressed with the 
form of a woman. This hapless sufferer had been a 
lady, perhaps the mistress of the splendid household ; 
for bracelets, rings, and jewels were found on the re- 
mains of her person. Our guide mentioned that, near 
the villa, the body of a man had been found grasping 
bags of money, and keys in his hands, as if struck 
down in the effort to escape with these valuables. 

" Hastening on from this interesting and disman- 
tled ruin, we proceeded along an avenue or street, 
singular in character, usually called the Street of 
Tombs. It is in reality what had been the burying- 
ground of the Pompeians, and is lined with monu- 
mental edifices of handsome and solid masonry, some 
in a tolerable state of preservation, but others dilapi- 
dated — less, however, by time, than the pressure of 
volcanic matter. The architecture is principally of 

the Grecian orders — columns, pilasters, mouldings in 

24 



278 warren's select readings. 

stone or marble, being conspicuous amidst the scene 
of desolation. 

" Reaching the end of the street of tombs, and mak- 
ing an easy ascent, we arrived at the gateway already 
mentioned. Every part is now in ruin ; but originally 
the entrance consisted of a central and two side arches. 
When the rubbish which encumbered the street and 
gateway was cleared away, the skeleton of a Roman 
soldier was found in a niche, marked on the side of 
the pathway : his lance was in his hand ; and, like a 
faithful sentinel, he had died rather than desert his 
post. 

" Turning up a cross street to the left, we were 
shown the remains of one of the largest private dwell- 
ings in the city, usually styled the house of Pansa, 
a public officer. In this great mansion, the water for 
drinking and cooking was brought in buckets from 
public fountains ; for, although the city was supplied 
with water by an aqueduct, from hills eight miles dis- 
tant, it was not introduced by pipes into the houses. 
This defect, however, did not arise from an ignorance 
of hydraulics, because in Pompeii there are paintings 
of fountains spouting water. As large numbers of 
slaves and menials were employed in carrying water, 
and in various cleansing operations, the inconven- 
ience of having no provision for introducing water to 
the houses in pipes was not probably felt. Another 
deficiency was the absence of chimneys or fire-places. 
Suitable enough for summer or pleasant, dry weather, 
the houses could not fail to be uncomfortable in winter. 
Excepting where flues of warm air were led through 
the walls for furnaces employed for hot baths, the 
method of heating was by pans of burning wood or 



warren's select readings. 279 

charcoal, over which the people sat shivering in cold 
weather. 

" Cooking was likewise performed over pans of char- 
coal sunk in counters of stone work. Ancient Roman 
writers make grievous complaints of the smoke rising 
from the heating-pans, which, having no contrivance 
to rid themselves of, wound in clouds through the 
apartments, spoiling the appearance of the statues and 
pictured walls, and in certain seasons making life 
within doors almost insupportable. How remarkable 
does it now appear, that a people so far advanced in 
taste and luxury, so accomplished in all ornamental 
arts, should not have arrived at the discovery and use 
of chimneys ! With these things forced on our notice, 
the feelings of regret which we experienced in wan- 
dering through the roofless halls of Pansa's palace 
were considerably modified. We thought of our neat 
dwelling at home, which, without any pretensions 
to magnificence, surpassed in every useful and sub- 
stantial accommodation this once proud and lordly 
mansion." — From Chambers' Miscellany. 



THE GRAY FOREST EAGLE. 

WITH storm-daring pinion and sun-gazing eye, 
The gray forest eagle is king of the sky! 
Oh, little he loves the green valley of flowers, 
Where sunshine and song cheer the bright summer 

hours, 
For he hears in those haunts only music, and sees 
Only rippling of waters and waving of trees ; 



/ 

280 warren's select readings. 

There the red robin warbles, the honey-bee hums, 
The timid quail whistles, the sly partridge drums ; 
And if those proud pinions, perchance, sweep along-, 
There's a shrouding of plumage, a hushing of song; 
The sunlight falls stilly on leaf and on moss, 
And there 's naught but his shadow black gliding 

across ; 
But the dark, gloomy gorge, where down plunges the 

foam 
Of the fierce, rock-lashed torrent, he claims as his 

home; 
There he blends his keen shriek with the roar of the 

flood, 
And the many-voiced sounds of the blast-smitten 

wood; 
From the crag-grasping fir top, where morn hangs 

its wreath, 
He views the mad waters white writhing beneath. 
On a limb of that moss-bearded hemlock far down, 
With bright azure mantle and gay mottled crown, 
The kingfisher watches, while o'er him his foe, 
The fierce hawk, sails circling, each moment more low. 
Now poised are those pinions, and pointed that beak, 
His dread swoop is ready, when, hark ! with a shriek, 
His eye-balls red blazing, high bristling his crest, 
His snake-like neck arched, talons drawn to his 

breast, 
With the rush of the wind gusts, the glancing of 

light, 
The gray forest eagle shoots down in his flight; 
One blow of those talons, one plunge of that neck, 
The strong hawk hangs lifeless, a blood-dripping 

wreck, 






warren's select readings. 281 

And as dives the free kingfisher, dart-like on high 
With his prey soars the eagle, and melts in the sky. 

A fitful red glaring, a low, rumbling jar, 

Proclaim 'the storm-demon yet raging afar : 

The black cloud strides upward, the lightning more 

red, 
And the roll of the thunder more deep and more 

dread ; 
A thick pall of darkness is cast o'er the air, 
And on bounds the blast with a howl from its lair; 
The lightning darts zigzag and forked through the 

gloom, 
And the bolt launches o'er with crash, rattle, and 

boom; 
The gray forest eagle, where, where has he sped? 
Does he shrink to his eyry, and shiver with dread? 
Does the glare blind his eye? Has the terrible blast 
On the wing of the sky-king a fear- fetter cast? 

No, no, the brave eagle ! he thinks not of fright ; 
The wrath of the tempest but rouses delight; 
To the flash of the lightning his eye casts a gleam, 
To the shriek of the wild blast he echoes his scream, 
And with front like a warrior that speeds to the fray, 
And a clapping of pinions, he 's up and away ! 
Away, oh, away, soars the fearless and free ! 
What recks he the sky's strife ? its monarch is he ! 
The lightning darts round him, undaunted his sight; 
The blast sweeps against him, unwavered his flight; 
High upward, still upward, he wheels, till his form 

Is lost in the black, scowling gloom of the storm. 

24* 



282 warren's select readings. 

The tempest sweeps o'er with its terrible train, 
And the splendor of sunshine is glowing again ; 
Again smiles the soft, tender blue of the sky, 
Waked-bird voices warble, fanned-leaf voices sigh ; 
On the green grass dance shadows, streams sparkle 

and run, 
The breeze bears the odor its flower-kiss has won, 
And full on the form of the demon in flight 
The rainbow's magnificence gladdens the sight ! 

The gray forest eagle ! Oh, where is he now, 
While the sky wears the smile of its God on its brow? 
There 's a dark floating spot by yon cloud's pearly 

wreath, 
With the speed of the arrow 'tis shooting beneath! 
Down, nearer and nearer it draws to the gaze, 
Now over the rainbow, now blent with its blaze, 
To a shape it expands, still it plunges through air, 
A proud crest, a fierce eye, a broad wing are there ; 
'Tis the eagle — the gray forest eagle — once more 
He sweeps to his eyry: his journey is o'er! 

An emblem of Freedom, stern, haughty, and high, 
Is the gray forest eagle, that king of the sky ! 
It scorns the bright scenes, the gay places of earth — 
By the mountain and torrent it springs into birth ; 
There rocked by the wild wind, baptized in the foam, 
It is guarded and cherished, and there is its home ! 
When its shadow steals black o'er the empires of 

kings, 
Deep terror, deep heart-shaking terror it brings ; 
Where wicked oppression' is armed for the weak, 
Then rustles its pinions, then echoes its shriek; 



warren's select readings. 283 

Its eye flames with vengeance, it sweeps on its way, 
And its talons are bathed in the blood of its prey. 

Oh, that eagle of Freedom ! when cloud upon cloud 
Swathed the sky of my own native land with a shroud, 
When lightnings gleamed fiercely, and thunder-bolts 

rung, 
How proud to the tempest those pinions were flung ! 
Though the wild blast of battle swept fierce through 

the air, 
With darkness and dread, still the eagle was there; 
Unquailing, still speeding, his swift flight was on, 
Till the rainbow of peace crowned the victory won. 
Oh, that eagle of Freedom ! age dims not his eye, — 
He has seen earth's mortality spring, bloom, and die ; 
He has seen the strong nations rise, flourish, and fall ; 
He mocks at Time's changes, he triumphs o'er all; 
He has seen our own land with wild forests o'erspread; 
He sees it with sunshine and joy on its head; 
And his presence will bless this his own chosen 

clime 
Till the Archangel's fiat is set upon time. 

A. B. Street. 



THE MAIDEN MARTYR. 

The following incident characterizes an important era in the 
history of the Scotch Covenanters. 

A TROOP of soldiers waited at the door, 
A crowd of people gathered in the street, 
Aloof a little from them bared sabres gleamed 
And flashed into their faces. Then the door 



284 warren's select readings. 

Was opened, and two women meekly stepped 
Into the sunshine of the sweet May-noon 
Out of the prison. One was weak and old ; 
The other was a maiden in her morn, 
And they were one in name, and one in faith, 
Mother and daughter in the bond of Christ, — 
That bound them closer than the ties of blood. 

The troop moved on ; and down the sunny street 

The people followed, ever falling back 

As in their faces flashed the naked blades ; 

But in the midst the women simply went 

As if they too were walking, side by side, 

Up to God's house on some still Sabbath morn, 

Only they were not clad for Sabbath day, 

But as they went about their daily tasks : 

They went to prison and they went to death, 

Upon their Master's service. 

On the shore 
The troopers halted; all the shining sands 
Lay bare and glistening, for the tide had 
Drawn back to its farthest margin's reedy mark, 
And each succeeding wave, with flash and curve, 
That seemed to mock the sabres on the shore, 
Drew nearer by a hand-breadth. " It will be 
A long day's work," murmured those murderous men 
As they slacked rein. The leader of the troops 
Dismounted, and the people passing near 
Then heard the pardon proffered, with the oath 
Renouncing and abjuring part with all 
The persecuted, covenanted folk ; 
But both refused the oath : " Because," they said, 






warren's select readings. 285 

"Unless with Christ's dear servants we have part, 
We have no part with Him." 

On this they took 
The elder Margaret, and led her out 
Over the sliding sands, the weedy sludge, 
The pebbly shoals, far out, and fastened her 
Unto the farthest stake, already reached 
By every rising wave, and left her there : 
And as the waves crept round her feet, she prayed 
"That He would firm uphold her in their midst, 
Who holds them in the hollow of his hand." 

The tide flowed in. And up and down the shore 
There paced the Provost and the Laird of Lag — 
Grim Grierson — with Windram and Graham. 
And the rude soldiers, jesting with coarse oaths, 
As in the midst the maiden meekly stood, 
Waiting her doom delayed, said " she would 
Turn before the tide — seek refuge in their arms 
From the chill waves." But ever to her lips 
There came the wondrous words of life and peace : 
" If God be for us, who can be against ? " 
" Who shall divide us from the love of Christ ? " 
" Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature." 

From the crowd 
A woman's voice cried a very bitter cry — 
"O Margaret! My bonnie, bonnie Margaret! 
Gie in, gie in, my bairnie, dinna ye drown, 
Gie in, and take the oath ! " 

The tide flowed in: 
And so wore on the sunny afternoon ; 



286 warren's select readings. 

And every fire went out upon the hearth, 

And not a meal was tasted in the town that day. 

And still the tide was flowing in ; 

Her mother's voice yet sounding in her ear, 

They turned young Margaret's face towards the sea; 

Where something white was floating — something 

White as the sea-mew that sits upon the wave. 

But as she looked it sank, then showed again, 

Then disappeared; and round the shore 

And stake the tide stood ankle-deep. 

Then Grierson, 
With cursing, vowed that he- would wait 
No more, and to the stake the soldier led her 
Down and tied her hands ; and round her 
Slender waist too roughly cast the rope, for 
Windram came and eased it while he whispered 
In her ear, " Come, take the test, and ye are free." 
And one cried, " Margaret, say but God save 
The King ! " " God save the King of this great grace," 
She answered, but the oath she would not take. 

And still the tide flowed in, • 
And drove the people back and silenced them. 
The tide flowed in, and rising to her knees, 
She sang the psalm, u To Thee I lift my soul." 
The tide flowed in, and rising to her waist, 
" To Thee, my God, I lift my soul," she sang. 
The tide flowed in, and rising to her throat, 
She sang no more, but lifted up her face, 
And there was glory over all the sky — 
And there was glory over all the sea — 
A flood of glory, and the lifted face 
Swam in till it bowed beneath the flood, 
And Scotland's Maiden Martyr went to God. 



warren's select readings. 287 

THE LIFE-BOAT. 

QUICK! man the life-boat! See yon bark 
That drives before the blast ! 
There 's a rock ahead, the night is dark, 

And the storm comes thick and fast. 
Can human power in such an hour 
Avert the doom that 's o'er her ? 
Her mainmast is gone, but she still drives on 
To the fatal reef before her. 

The life-boat! Man the life-boat! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! Hark ! the gun 

Booms through the vapory air; 
And see ! the signal-flags are on, 

And speak the ship's despair. 
That forked flash, that pealing crash, 

Seemed from the wave to sweep her; 
She 's on the rock, with a terrible shock, 

And the wail comes louder and deeper. 
The life-boat! Man the life-boat! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! See — the crew 

Gaze on their watery grave; 
Already some, a gallant few, 

Are battling with the wave ; 
And one there stands, and wrings his hands, 

As thoughts of home come o'er him ; 
For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, 

He sees on the heights before him. 
The life-boat! Man the life-boat! 

Speed, speed the life-boat ! Off she goes ! 
And, as they pull the oar, 



288 warren's select readings. 

From shore and ship a cheer arose, 

That rang from ship to shore. 
Life-saving ark ! yon fated bark 

Has human lives within her; 
And dearer than gold is the wealth untold 

Thou 'It save, if thou canst win her. 
On, life-boat ! Speed thee, life-boat ! 

Hurrah! the life-boat dashes on, 

Though darkly the reef may frown ; 
The rock is there — the ship is gone 

Full twenty fathoms down. 
But, cheered by hope, the seamen cope 

With the billows single-handed : 
They are all in the boat ! — hurrah ! they 're afloat ! 

And now they are safely landed 

By the life-boat! Cheer the life-boat! 



CHICAGO. 



MEN said at vespers : " All is well ! " 
In one wild night the city fell ; 
Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain 
Before the fiery hurricane. 

On threescore spires had sunset shone, 
Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. 
Men clasped each other's hands, and said 
" The city of the West is dead ! " 

Brave hearts, who fought in slow retreat 
The fiends of fire from street to street, 






warren's select readings. 289 

Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, 
The dumb defiance of despair. 

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire 

That signalled round that sea of fire; 

Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came ; 

In tears of pity died the flame ! 

From East, from West, from South and North, 
The messages of hope shot forth, 
And, underneath the severing wave, 
The world, full handed, reached to save. 

Fair seemed the old ; but fairer still 
The new the dreary void shall fill 
With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, 
For love shall lay each corner-stone. 

Rise, stricken city ! — from thee throw 
The ashen sackcloth of thy woe ; 
And build, as to Amphion's strain, 
To songs of cheer thy walls again ! 

How shrivelled in thy hot distress 
The primal sin of selfishness ! 
How instant rose, to take thy part, 
The angel in the human heart! 

Ah ! not in vain the flames that tossed 
Above thy dreadful holocaust ; 
The Christ again has preached through thee 
The Gospel of Humanity! 
25 T 



29O WARREN S SELECT READINGS, 

Then lift once more thy towers on high, 
And fret with spires the western sky, 
To tell that God is yet with us, 
And love is still miraculous ! 

% G. Whittier. 



"ROCK OF AGES." 



ROCK of ages, cleft for me," 
Thoughtlessly the maiden sung; 
Fell the words unconsciously 

From her girlish, gleeful tongue; 
Sang as little children sing; 

Sang as sing the birds in June; 
Fell the words like light leaves down 
On the current of the tune — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee.'* 

" Let me hide myself in Thee," — 

Felt her soul no need to hide — 
Sweet the song as song could be, 

And she had no thought beside; 
All the words unheedingly 

Fell from lips untouched by care, 
Dreaming not that they might be 

On some other lips a prayer — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

Twas a woman sung them now, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 20,1 

Pleadingly and prayerfully, 

Every word her heart did know. 

Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 
Beats with weary wing the air, 

Every note with sorrow stirred, 
Every syllable a prayer — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
Trustingly and tenderly, 

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim — 
" Let me hide myself in Thee." 

Trembling though the voice and low, 
Ran the sweet strain peacefully, 

Like a river in its flow; 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who life's thorny path have press'd; 
Sang as only they can sing 

Who behold the promised rest — 
" Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

" Rock of ages, cleft for me," — 

Sung above a coffin-lid; — 
Underneath, all restfully, 

All life's joys and sorrows hid; 
Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul ! 

Nevermore from wind or tide, 
Nevermore from billow's roll 

Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 



292 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
Could the mute and stiffened lips 
Move again in pleading prayer, 
Still, aye, still, the words would be, — 
"Let me hide myself in Thee." 



CULTURE, THE RESULT OF LABOR. 

THE education, moral and intellectual, of every in- 
dividual must be chiefly his own work. How else 
could it happen that young men, who have had pre- 
cisely the same opportunities, should be continually 
presenting us with such different results, and rushing 
to such opposite destinies ? Difference of talent will 
not solve it, because that difference is very often in 
favor of the disappointed candidate. 

You will see issuing from the walls of the same 
college — nay, sometimes from the bosom of the same 
family, — two young men, of whom the one shall be 
admitted to be a genius of high order, the other scarcely 
above the point of mediocrity ; yet you shall see the 
genius sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity, and 
wretchedness ; while, on the other hand, you shall ob- 
serve the mediocre plodding his slow but sure way up 
the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing at every step, 
and mounting, at length, to eminence and distinction, 
— an ornament to his family, a blessing to his country. 

Now whose work is this ? Manifestly their own. 
Men are the architects of their respective fortunes. It 
is the flat of fate from which no power of genius 
can absolve you. Genius, unexerted, is like the poor 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 293 

moth that flutters around a candle till it scorches itself 
to death. If genius be desirable at all, it is only of 
that great and magnanimous kind which, like the 
condor of South America, pitches from the summit of 
Chimborazo, above the clouds, and sustains itself at 
pleasure in that empyreal region with an energy rather 
invigorated than weakened by the effort. 

It is this capacity for high and long-continued exer- 
tion, this vigorous power of profound and searching 
investigation, this careering and wide-spreading com- 
prehension of mind, and those long reaches of thought, 
that 

" Pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon, 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 
And drag up drowned honor by the locks." 

This is the prowess, and these the hardy achievements, 
which are to enroll your names among the great men 
of the earth. — William Wirt. 



THE TRAIN TO MAURO. 

CHARACTERS : Mrs. Buttermilk, an elderly lady from the 
country. 
Mr. Bright, clerk at a railway station. 
Johnnie Buttermilk, a terrible child. 
Mr. Bright seated at a table, writing. Enter Mrs. Butter- 
milk, with a bandbox, a carpet-bag, an umbrella, and a basket. 
Johnnie, with a satchel, a bundle, a parasol, and a fishing-rod. 



M 



RS. BUTTERMILK. Morning, sir ! 

Mr. Bright {coldly). Good-morning. 
Mrs. B. Fairish day ! 

Mr. B. {very stiffly). Very pleasant, madam. 
25* 



294 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Mrs. B. Is this the place where you take the train 
to Mauro ? 

Mr. B. You can take a train here to-morrow, or any- 
other day. 

Mrs. B. I want to take the train to Mauro. 

Johnnie. No you don't, ma. You want the train to 
take you. 

Mrs. B. It 's all the same. Are all my things here 
— bandbox, carpet-bag, umbril, basket — you John, 
have you got all the things — bag, bundle, parasol? 

J. Yes, and my fishing-rod. 

Mr. B. If you don't want to leave to-day, you had 
better go over the way to a hotel. You cannot stay 
here all night. 

Mrs. B. Stay here all night! 

J. Nobody wants to stay here. We 're going up to 
Aunt Susan's. 

Mr. B. You said you wanted to go to-morrow. 

Mrs. B. Well, so we do. My old man's sister's son's 
wife is sick. 

Mr. B. I don't want to hear your family troubles. 

Mrs. B. 'T ain't my family. It 's Buttermilk's son's 
wife 's got some kind o' sickness come on sudden. 
You see Buttermilk's sister's son's wife is always deli- 
cate, and this is a bad spell, I reckon. 

Mr. B. I should think you would go to-day. You 
seem all prepared. 

Mrs. B. Ain't I going as soon as the train comes 
along to Mauro ? 

Mr. B. Why do you wait till to morrow ? Where 
are you going? 

Mrs. B. Don't I tell you I 'm going to Mauro. Got 
all the things safe, Johnnie ? 



warren's select readings. 295 

J. Yes, ma. 

Mrs. B. Bandbox, carpet-bag, umbril, basket, bag, 
bundle, parasol ? 

% And fishing-rod. 

Mrs. B. Young man, what are you writing ? 

Mr. B. {coldly). A report of an accident on the road. 

Mrs. B. Oh, mercy ! Oh ! Are we going to have 
an accident ? I won't go ! I won't stir a step. 

Mr. B. You need not be alarmed. The accident 
took place a week ago. 

Mrs. B. What did they do, young man? 

Mr. B. Ran over a cow. 

Mrs. B. Dear me! Was she hurt, poor thing? 

Mr. B. She was taken up in three pieces. 

Mrs. B. You don't say so ! 

J. Dear me, what a fuss about a cow ! Is all that 
writing about it ? 

Mr. B. Yes, it is. The cow threw the train off the 
track; thirty people were killed, sixty injured; the 
locomotive smashed to pieces, and five cars shattered. 

Mrs. B. I 'm going home ! 

y. Oh, pshaw, ma! I want to go fishing. 

Mrs. B. Fishing ! Thirty killed ! Young man, did 
you say thirty f 

Mr. B. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. B, When '11 that train be along, young man? 

Mr. B. What train? 

Mrs. B. The ten-forty train. 

Mr. B. (pettishly). At ten-forty, of course. 

Mrs. B. That's the one that goes to Mauro, ain't it? 

Mr. B. Of course it goes to-morrow. It goes every 
day. 

Mrs. B. Oh ! You see, young man, it 's some ways 



296 warren's select readings. 

for me to come down here, for I live fifteen miles back 
in the country. 

Mr. B. I don't want to know where you live. 

Mrs. B. And Mr. Jenk's uncle's daughter's husband 
was a coming over with market truck ; they 've taken 
the corner farm this season, and are doing pretty well 
in garden sass and berries. 

Mr. B. I don't want to hear all this. 

Mrs. B. As I was saying, Mr. Jenk's uncle's son-in- 
law was coming over, and he stopped around to our 
place, and says he — Mrs. Buttermilk, says he, I hear 
you 're going up to town to take the train ! 

Mr. B. See here, boy, can't you make your mother 
be quiet ? I want to write. 

J. {grinning). That 's a good one. I make her ! 
Suppose you try. 

Mrs. B. Shut up, John. Well, sir, as I was saying, 
Mr. Jenk's uncle's daughter's husband brought me 
over with as fine a lot of early greens as ever grew 
in our parts. It beats me how they was ever raised 
on that miserable old place. It must be out of his 
books and papers. He 's a powerful hand for read- 
ing, and I must say he 's a first-rate hand on a farm. 
His pigs are pictures ! If you want garden sass, any 
time, young man, I '11 get him to stop here. 

Mr. B. [crossly). You need n't trouble yourself. 

Mrs. B. 'T ain't a mite o' trouble. I see him every 
market-day, 'cause he brings my butter. 

Mr. B. I don't want any garden sass. 

Mrs. B. Dear me ! Now some folks is so fond of it, 
when it comes in fresh. 

Mr. B. I 'm not. 

Mrs. B. Powerful stupid, waiting here, ain't it? 



warren's select readings. 297 

You see I had to come in early to get a seat in the 
wagon. 

y. Ma! 

Mrs. B. Well, John, what is it now? Your tongue 's 
always running. Nobody else gets a chance to put a 
word in sideways when you get started. 

J. Ma, I 'm hungry. 

Mrs. B. Well, I do believe that 's what ails me ! I 
thought I felt faintish. [Opens her basket?) Here 's 
the plaster for your Aunt Susan. Ever have the rheu- 
matiz, young man ? 

Mr. B. Never ! 

Mrs. B. I '11 send you one of my rheumatiz plasters, 
if you have. Cure you, sure ! 

(Puts the plaster on bench?) 

J. Come, ma, hurry up, and find some gingerbread. 

Mrs. B. {taking out a bottle). Here's the yarb tea 
for your uncle. Ever had the asthma, young man ? 

Mr. B. No ! 

Mrs. B. I could leave you a little of this tea, if you 
had. Best thing in the world if you should ever feel 
wheezy. Bless your heart, they send from all round 
the country for my yarb tea for asthma. 

{Puts bottle on bench?) 

J. Come, ma ! 

Mrs. B. Dear me, Johnnie ! How came your worms 
in here ? ( Takes out a paper box) 

J. Well, if I did n't look high and low for that bait. 
You must have got them off the kitchen-table, ma ! 

Mrs. B. Ever go fishing, young man ? 

Mr. B. Never ! 

Mrs. B. Might a had some o' John's bait just as well 
as not. {Takes out another box.) Here ? s the roots for 



298 warren's select readings. 

the drink in case of fever. Are you subject to fever, 
young man? 

Mr. B. Not at all ! 

Mrs. B. Pity, now, ain't it ? Could a left you some 
o' these roots just as well as not. 

Mr. B. {sarcastically). You are very kind ! 

J. I say, ma ! I '11 starve to death before you find 
that gingerbread. 

Mrs. B. Dear me, Johnnie, I wish you had a little 
patience. {Takes out a paper bundle}) Here's my 
tallow candles, in case there 's night-watching, for 
your Aunt Susan will burn that awful kerosene, and 
I'm as 'fraid as death of it, ever since my cousin's 
niece's husband's first wife's child was burned to death 
by the explosion of a lamp put side of his bed for him 
to go sleep, and he upset it onto the bed-clothes, and 
was burned to a cinder right in his own night-gown. 
I've never burned a bit of kerosene since I heard of 
it. It gave me such a turn, I was sick for a week. 
Burn kerosene, young man ? 

Mr. B. I 'd like to drown you in a barrel of it ! 

Mrs. B. Now I don't call that neighborly ; I would n't 
want to serve you so. {Puts bundle on the bench}) I was 
going to say I coidd spare you one or two of my can- 
dles, and they 're good, for I made them myself. 

Mr. B. Then you 'd better burn them yourself. 

J. Found that gingerbread yet, ma ? 

Mrs. B. {taking out the articles as she names them, 
and putting them on the beiich). Here 's the fine -tooth 
comb, and your tooth-brush, and the hands and face 
soap from the store — hard yellow soap 's just as good, 
to my notion — and the hair-brush and comb, and your 
box of blacking, John, and the hair-ile, and the almanac, 
and — here 's the gingerbread. {Mr. Bright rises.) 



warren's select readings. 299 

Mrs. B. Where are you going, young man ? 

Mr. B. Time for the train. 

Mrs. B. My train ? 

Mr. B. I thought you were not going until to- 
morrow. 

Mrs. B. So I am going to Mauro. That 's where 
my husband's sister's son's wife is sick, at Mauro. 

Mr. B. I do believe you are going to Mauro. 

Mrs. B. Have n't I been saying so all along ? Of 
course I 'm going there. 

Mr. B. Well, you '11 have to hurry. I hear the train 
now, and it only stops a minute or two. 

Mrs. B. You don't say so. Johnnie, help me put 
the things in the basket. (Scrambling them all together, 
dropping them on the floor, trying to cram them in the 
basket hastily, all the time she is talking}) Dear me, 
I never was so flustercated in all my life. I '11 miss 
the train now. John, all for you being so long over 
that gingerbread. Where's my night-cap? There, 
it's rolled clear across the floor. Go, pick it. up, 
Johnnie. They won't go in ! They all came out of 
this basket, and they must go in. Where 's the plaster 
for Aunt Susan's rheumatiz ? Oh, young man, don't 
stand gaping there, but help me, can't you ? 

Mr. B. Train 's in ! {Saunters out.) 

Mrs. B. Come, Johnnie ! Oh, we '11 never git the 
things. {Gathers them all up helter-skelter and runs out, 
dropping them all along on the floor}) 

J. I 'm coming ! (Runs after Mrs. Buttermilk, picking 
up the articles dropped, and dropping others as fast. 
Both go off) S. A. Frost. 



300 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

AN APPEAL TO THE " SEXTANT" FOR AIR. 

SEXTANT of the meetin-house, wich sweeps 
And dusts, or is supposed to ! and makes fires, 
And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, 
in which case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile ; 
And rings the Bel and tols it when men dies, 
to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths; 
And for the servusses gets $100 per annum, 
Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it ; 
Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and 
Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold 
As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin ; 
i would n't be hired to do it for no sum, — 
But, O Sextant! there are I kermoddity 
Wich 's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin 
Worth more than anything except the sole of man ! 
i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are ! 
O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no 
W 7 hat on airth to dew with itself, but flys about 
Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts ! 
in short, its jest 's as " free as are " out dores, 
But, O Sextant, in our church, its scarce as buty, 
Scarce as bank bills, when agints beg for mischuns, 
Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me, wat 

I give aint nothin to nobody), but, O Sextant, 
U shet 500 men, wimmin and children, 
Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, 
Some has bad breths, none aint 2 sweet, 
Some is fevery, some is scrofilous, some has bad teeth, 
And some haint none, and some aint over clean ; 
But every 1 on 'em brethes in and out, and out and in, 
Say 50 times a minnit, or I million and a half breths 
an our. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 3OI 

Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, 
I ask you — say 15 minits — and then wats to be did? 
Why then they must brethe it all over agin, 
And then agin, and so on till each has took it down 
At least 10 times, and let it up agin ; and wats more 
The same individoal don't have the priviledge 
of brethin his own are, and no one's else, 
Each one must take whatever comes to him. 
O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, 
To bio the fier of life, and keep it from goin Qut ; 
and how can bellusses bio without wind, 
And aint wind are ? i put it to your conschens. 
Are is the same to us as milk to babies, 
Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, 
Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor, 
Or little pills unto an omepath, 
Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe ; 
What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe ? 
Wats Pol ? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded ? 
Ded for want of breath ; why, Sextant, when we dy, 
Its only coz we cant breathe no more, thats all. 
And now, O Sextant, let me beg of you 
To let a little are into our church. 
(Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews) 
And do it weak days, and Sundays tew, 
It aint much trouble, only make a hole 
And the are will come of itself; 
(It luvs to come in where it can git warm) 
And O how it will rouze the people up, 
And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps, 
And yawns, and figgits, as effectoal 
As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels of. 
26 



302 warren's select readings. 

THE DRUMMER-BOY. 

A TOUCHING INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. 

CAPTAIN GRAY, the men were sayin' 
Ye would want a drummer-lad, 
So I 've brought my boy Sandie, 

Tho' my heart is woful sad ; 
But nae bread is left to feed us, 

And no siller to buy more, 
For the gudeman sleeps forever 
Where the heather blossoms o'er. 

" Sandie, make your manners quickly, 

Play your blithest measure true — 
Gie us ' Flowers of Edinboro',' 

While yon fifer plays it too. 
Captain, heard ye e'er a player 

Strike in truer time than he?" 
" Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray, 

Drummer of our corps shall be." 

" I give ye thanks — but, Captain, maybe 

Ye will hae a kindly care 
For the friendless, lonely laddie, 

When the battle wark is sair: 
For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, 

And I 've nothing else to love, 
Nothing — but the grave off yonder, 

And the father up above." 

Then, her rough hand gently laying 
On the curl-encircled head, 



warren's select readings. 303 

She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, 

And not another word was said ; 
For Captain Gray was sadly dreaming 

Of a benison, long ago, 
Breathed above his head, then golden, 

Bending now and touched with snow. 

" Good-by, Sandie." " Good-by, mother, 

I '11 come back some summer day ; 
Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 

Ever. Do they, Captain Gray? 
One more kiss — watch for me, mother, 

You will know 'tis surely me 
Coming home — for you will hear me 

Playing soft the reveille." 

After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 

Seemed to link in strange affright, 
As the scudding clouds before them 

Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
And the night-wind softly whispered, 

When low moans its light wing bore — 
Moans that ferried spirits over 

Death 's dark wave to yonder shore. 

Wandering where a footstep careless 

Might go splashing down in blood, 
Or a helpless hand lie grasping 

Death and daisies from the sod — 
Captain Gray walked swiftly onward, 

While a faintly-beating drum 
Quickened heart and step together: 

" Sandie Murray ! See, I come ! 



3O4 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

<f Is it thus I find you, laddie ? 

Wounded, lonely, lying here, 
Playing thus the reveille ? 

See — the morning is not near." 
A moment paused the drummer-boy, 

And lifted up his drooping head: 
" Oh, Captain Gray, the light is coming, 

'T is morning, and my prayers are said. 

"Morning! See, the plains grow brighter — 

Morning — and I'm going home; 
That is why I play the measure; 

Mother will not see me come; 
But you '11 tell her, won't you, Captain — • " 

Hush, the boy has spoken true ; 
To him the day has dawned forever,* 

Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 



PRO PATRIA. 

(INSCRIBED TO THE SECOND NEW HAMPSHIRE REGIMENT.) 

THE grand old earth shakes at the tread of the 
Norsemen, 
Who meet, as of old, in defence of the true ; 
All hail to the stars that are set in their banner! 
All hail to the red, and the white, and the blue ! 
As each column wheels by, 
Hear their hearts' battle-cry, — 
It was Warren's, — 

' Tis sweet for our country to die / 



warren's select readings. 305 

Lancaster and Coos, Laconia and Concord, 

Old Portsmouth and Keene, send their stalwart 
young men ; 
They come from the plough, and the loom, and the 
anvil, 
From the marge of the sea, from the hill-top and 
glen. 
As each column wheels by, 
Hear their hearts' battle-cry,— 
It was Warren's, — 

' Tis sweet for our country to die ! 

The prayers of fair women, like legions of angels, 
Watch over our soldiers by day and by night ; 
And the King of all glory, the chief of all armies, 
Shall love them and lead them who dare to do 
right ! 
As each column wheels by, 
Hear their hearts' battle-cry, — 
Twas Warren's, — 

' Tis sweet for our country to die / 

T. B. Aldrich. 



I WAS WITH GRANT. 

[WAS with Grant — " the stranger said; 
Said the farmer, " Say no more, 
But rest thee here at my cottage-porch, 
For thy feet are weary and sore." 

*' I was with Grant — " the stranger said ; 
Said the farmer, " Nay, no more — 

26* u 



306 warren's select readings. 

I prithee sit at my frugal board, 
And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy — my soldier-boy, 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps? 
I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar." 

"I know him not/' said the aged man, 
" And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant — " " Nay, nay, I know," 
Said the farmer, "Say no more. 

" He fell in battle — I see, alas ! 

Thou didst smooth these tidings o'er — 
Nay ; speak the truth, whatever it be, 
Though it rend my bosom's core. 

" How fell he ? with his face to the foe, 
Upholding the flag he bore ? 
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 
The uniform that he wore!" 

"I cannot tell," said the aged man, 

"And should have remarked before, 
That I was with Grant — in Illinois — 
Some three years before the war!' 

"Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
But beat with his fist full sore 
That aged man who had zvorked for Grant 
Some three years before the war. 

Bret Harte. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 307 

CULTURE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 

WE are living at a period when the language has 
attained a high degree of excellence, both in 
prose and verse, — when it has developed largely, for 
all the uses of language, its power and beauty. It is 
one of the noblest languages that the earth has ever 
sounded with ; it is our endowment, our inheritance, 
our trust. It associates us with the wise and good of 
olden times, and it couples us with the kindred peoples 
of many distant regions. 

It is our duty, therefore, to cultivate, to cherish, and 
to keep it from corruption. Especially is this a duty 
for us, who are spreading that language over such vast 
territory ; and not only that, but having such grow- 
ing facilities of inter-communication, the language is 
perpetually speeding from one portion of the land to 
another with wondrous rapidity, equally favorable to 
the diffusion of either purity or corruption of speech, 
but, certainly, calculated to break down narrow and 
false provincialisms of speech. 

In the culture and preservation of a language, there 
are two principles, deep seated in the philosophy of 
language, which should be borne in mind. One is, 
that every living language has a power of growth, of 
expansion, of development; in other words, its life — 
that which makes it a living language, having within 
itself a power to supply the growing wants and im- 
provements of a living people that uses it. If, by any 
system of rules, restraint is put on this genuine and 
healthful freedom, on this genial movement, the native 
vigor of the language is weakened. — Henry Reed. 



308 warren's select readings. 

BOOKS. 
(from "self-culture.") 

IT is chiefly through books that we enjoy intercourse 
with superior minds, and these invaluable means of 
communication are in the reach of all. 

In the best books great men talk to us, give us their 
most precious thoughts, and pour their souls into ours. 
God be thanked for books. They are the voices of the 
distant and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual 
life of past ages. Books are the true levellers. They 
give to all, who will faithfully use them, the society, 
the spiritual presence of the best and greatest of our 
race. No matter how poor I am ; no matter though 
the prosperous of my own time will not enter my ob- 
scure dwelling, if the sacred writers will enter and 
take up their abode under my roof, if Milton will cross 
my threshold to sing to me of Paradise, and Shake- 
speare to open to me the worlds of imagination and 
the workings of the human heart, and Franklin to 
enrich me with his practical wisdom, I shall not pine 
for want of intellectual companionship, and I may be- 
come a cultivated man though excluded from what is 
called the best society in the place where I live. 

W. E. Cha,7ining. 



THE BLACK REGIMENT. 

(THE SECOND LOUISIANA AT THE STORMING OF PORT HUDSON.) 

ARK as the clouds of even, 
Ranked in the western heaven, 
Waiting the breath that lifts 



D 



All the dread mass, and drifts 



warren's select readings. 309 

Tempest and falling brand 
Over a ruined land ; — 
So still and orderly, 
Arm to arm, knee to knee, 
Waiting the great event, 
Stands the Black Regiment. 

Down the long dusky line 
Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine, 
And the bright bayonet, 
Bristling, and firmly set, 
Flashed with a purpose grand 
Long ere the sharp command 
Of the fierce rolling drum 
Told them their time had come — 
Told them what work was sent 
For the Black Regiment. 

" Now," the flag-sergeant cried, 
" Though death and hell betide, 
Let the whole nation see 
If we are fit to be 
Free in this land ; or bound 
Down, like the whining hound — 
Bound with red stripes of pain 
In our old chains again ! " 
Oh, what a shout there went 
From the Black Regiment! 

" Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke, 
Onward the bondmen broke: 
Bayonet and sabre-stroke 
Vainly opposed their rush. 



3IO WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Through the wild battle's crush, 
With but one thought aflush, 
Driving their lords like chaff, 
In the guns' mouths they laugh ; 
Or at the slippery brands 
Leaping with open hands, 
Down they tear man and horse, 
Down in their awful course; 
Trampling with bloody heel 
Over the crashing steel, 
All their eyes forward bent, 
Rushed the Black Regiment. 

" Freedom ! " their battle-cry, 
" Freedom ! or leave to die ! " 
Ah, and they meant the word, 
Not as with us 't is heard, 
Not a mere party shout : 
They gave their spirits out; 
Trusted the end to God, 
And on the gory sod 
Rolled in triumphant blood, 
Glad to strike one free blow, 
Whether for weal or woe; 
Glad to breathe one free breath, 
Though on the lips of death. 
Praying — alas! in vain! — 
That they might fall again, 
So they could once more see 
That burst to liberty ! 
This was what "Freedom" lent 
To the Black Regiment. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 3II 

Hundreds on hundreds fell, 
But they are resting well ; 
Scourges and shackles strong 
Never shall do them wrong. 
Oh, to the living few, 
Soldiers, be just and true! 
Hail them as comrades tried; 
Fight with them side by side; 
Never, in field or tent, 
Scorn the Black Regiment ! 

G. H. Boker. 



COLUMBUS AT BARCELONA. 

THE letter of Columbus to the Spanish monarchs, 
announcing his discovery, had produced the greatest 
sensation at court. The event it communicated was 
considered the most extraordinary of their prosperous 
reign ; and, following so close upon the conquest of 
Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of Divine 
favor for that triumph achieved in the cause of the 
true faith. The sovereigns themselves were for a 
time dazzled and bewildered by this sudden and easy 
acquisition of a new empire of indefinite extent and 
•apparently boundless wealth ; and their first idea was 
to secure it beyond the reach of question or competi- 
tion. 

Shortly after his arrival in Seville, Columbus re- 
ceived a letter from them, expressing their great 
delight, and requesting him to repair immediately 
to court, to concert plans for a second and more 
extensive expedition. 

As the summer was already advancing, the time 



312 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

favorable for a voyage, they desired him to make 
any arrangements at Seville, or elsewhere, that might 
hasten the expedition, and to inform them by the 
return of the courier what was necessary to be done 
on their part. This letter was addressed to him by 
the title of " Don Christopher Columbus, our Admiral 
of the Ocean Sea, and Viceroy and Governor of the 
Islands discovered in the Indies;" at the same time 
he was promised still further rewards. Columbus 
lost no time in complying with the commands of the 
sovereigns. He sent a memorandum of the ships, 
men, and munitions that would be requisite, and 
having made such dispositions at Seville as circum- 
stances permitted, set out on his journey for Bar- 
celona, taking with him the six Indians and the 
various curiosities and productions he had brought 
from the new world. 

The fame of his discovery had resounded through- 
out the nation, and, as his route lay through several 
of the finest and most populous provinces of Spain, 
his journey appeared like the progress of a sovereign. 
Wherever he passed, the surrounding country poured 
forth' its inhabitants, who lined the road and thronged 
the villages. In the large towns, the streets, windows, 
and balconies were filled with eager spectators, who* 
rent the air with acclamations. His journey was con- 
tinually impeded by the multitude pressing to gain a 
sight of him and of the Indians, who were regarded 
with as much admiration as if they had been natives 
of another planet. It was impossible to satisfy the 
craving curiosity which assailed himself and his at- 
tendants at every stage with innumerable questions ; 
popular rumor as usual had exaggerated the truth, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 313 

and had filled the newly-found country with all kinds 
of wonders. 

It was about the middle of April that Columbus 
arrived at Barcelona, where every preparation had 
been made to give him a solemn and magnificent 
reception. The beauty and serenity of the weather, in 
that genial season and favored climate, contributed 
to give splendor to this memorable ceremony. As 
he drew near the place, many of the more youthful 
courtiers and hidalgos of gallant bearing came forth 
to meet and welcome him. His entrance into this 
noble city has been compared to one of those triumphs 
which the Romans were accustomed to decree to con- 
querors. First, were paraded the Indians, painted 
according to their savage fashion, and decorated with 
tropical feathers and with their national ornaments 
of gold ; after these were borne various kinds of live 
parrots, together with stuffed birds and animals of 
unknown species, and rare plants supposed to be of 
precious qualities : while great care was taken to make 
a display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other 
decorations of gold, which might give an idea of the 
wealth of the newly-discovered regions. After these 
followed Columbus, on horseback, surrounded by a 
brilliant cavalcade of Spanish chivalry. The streets 
were almost impassable, from the countless multi- 
tude ; the windows and balconies were crowded with 
the fair; the very roofs were covered with specta- 
tors. It seemed as if the public eye could not be sated 
with gazing on these trophies of an unknown world, 
or on the remarkable man by whom it had been dis- 
covered. 

There was a sublimity in this event that mingled 
27 



314 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

a solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked 
upon as a vast and signal dispensation of Providence 
in reward for the piety of the monarchs ; and the 
majestic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, 
so different from the youth and buoyancy that are 
generally expected from roving enterprise, seemed in 
harmony with the grandeur and dignity of the achieve- 
ment. 

To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, 
the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be .placed 
in public, under a rich canopy of brocade of gold, in 
a vast and splendid saloon. Here the king and queen 
awaited his arrival, seated in state, with the Prince of 
Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of 
their court and the principal nobility of Castile, Va- 
lencia, Catalonia, and Aragon ; all impatient to behold 
the man who had conferred so incalculable a benefit 
upon the nation. At length, Columbus entered the 
hall surrounded by a brilliant crowd of cavaliers, 
among whom, says Las Casas, he was conspicuous for 
his stately and commanding person, which, with his 
countenance rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave 
him the august appearance of a senator of Rome. A 
modest smile lighted up his features, showing that he 
enjoyed the state and glory in which he came; and 
certainly nothing could be more deeply moving to a 
mind inflamed by noble ambition, and conscious of 
having greatly deserved, than these testimonials of the 
admiration and gratitude of a nation, or rather of a 
world. 

As Columbus approached, the sovereigns arose, as 
if receiving a person of the highest rank. 

Bending his knees, he requested to kiss their hands ; 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 315 

but there was some hesitation on the part of their 
majesties to permit this act of vassalage. Raising 
him in the most gracious manner, they ordered him 
to seat himself in their presence ; a rare honor in 
this proud and punctilious court. 

At the request of their majesties, Columbus now 
gave an account of the most striking events of his 
voyage, and a description of the islands which he had 
discovered. He displayed the specimens which he 
had brought of unknown birds and other animals ; of 
rare plants of medicinal and aromatic virtue ; of native 
gold in dust, in crude masses, or labored into bar- 
baric ornaments ; and above all, the natives of these 
countries, who were objects of intense and inexhausti- 
ble interest, since there is nothing to man so curious 
as the varieties of his own species. All these he pro- 
nounced mere harbingers of great discoveries he had 
yet to make, which would add realms of incalculable 
wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and whole 
nations of proselytes to the true faith. 

The words of Columbus were listened to with pro- 
found emotion by the sovereigns. When he had fin- 
ished, they sunk on their knees, and raising their 
clasped hands to heaven, their eyes filled with tears of 
joy and gratitude, they poured forth thanks and praises 
to God for so great a providence. All present followed 
their example ; a deep and solemn enthusiasm per- 
vaded that solemn assembly, and prevented all com- 
mon acclamations of triumph. The anthem of Te 
Deum Laudamns, chanted by the choir of the royal 
chapel, with the melodious accompaniments of the 
instruments, rose up from the midst in a full body of 
sacred harmony, bearing up, as it were, the feelings 



316 warren's select readings. 

and thoughts of the auditors to heaven ; " so that," 
says the venerable Las Casas, " it seemed as if in that 
hour they communicated with celestial delight. Such 
was the solemn and pious manner in which the bril- 
liant Court of Spain celebrated this sublime event, 
offering up a grateful tribute of melody and praise, 
and giving glory to God for the discovery of another 
world. Washington Irving. 



FOUND DEAD. 



FOUND dead! dead and alone! 
There was nobody near, nobody near 
When the outcast died on his pillow of stone — 

No mother, no brother, no sister dear, 
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer, 
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear. 
Oh, the city slept when he died alone, 
In a roofless street, on a pillow of stone. 

Many a weary day went by, 

While wrecked and worn he begged for bread, 
Tired of life, and longing to lie 

Peacefully down with the silent dead ; 
Hunger and cold and scorn and pain 
Had wasted his form and seared his brain, 
Till at last on a bed of frozen ground, 
With a pillow of stone, was the outcast found. 

Found dead ! dead and alone, 

On a pillow of stone in the roofless street ; 
Nobody heard his last faint moan 

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 317 

No mourner lingered with tears or sighs, 
But the stars looked down with their pitying eyes, 
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound 
O'er the lonely spot where his form was found. 

Found dead ! yet not alone : 

There was Somebody near — Somebody near 
To claim the wanderer as his own, 

And find a home for the homeless here; 
One, when every human door 
Is closed to his children, scorned and poor, 
Who opens the heavenly portal wide ; 
Ah, God was near when the outcast died. 

Albert Leighton. 



THE PALMETTO AND THE PINE. 

THEY planted them together — our gallant sires of 
old — 
Though one was crowned with crystal snow, and one 

with sober gold ; 
They planted them together — on the world's majestic 

height, 
At Saratoga's deathless charge, at Eutaw's stubborn 

fight; 
At midnight on the dark redoubt, 'mid plunging shot 

and shell — 
At moonlight gasping in the crush of battle's bloody 

swell — 
With gory hands and reeking brows, amid the mighty 

fray 
Which surged and swelled around them on that 

memorable day, 
27* 



318 warren's select readings. 

When they planted Independence, as a symbol and a 

sign, 
They struck deep soil and planted the Palmetto and 

the Pine ! 

They planted them together — by the river of the 

years — 
Watered with our fathers' hearts' blood, watered with 

our mothers' tears ; 
In the strong, rich soil of Freedom, with a bounteous 

benison 
From their Prophet, Priest, and Pioneer — our Father, 

Washington ! 
Above them floated echoes of the ruin and the wreck, 
Like " drums that beat at Louisburg, and thundered 

at Quebec," 
But the old lights sank in darkness as the new stars 

rose to shine 
O'er those emblems of the sections — the Palmetto 

and the Pine. 

And we '11 plant them still together — for 't is yet the 

self-same soil 
Our fathers' valor won for us by victory and toil ; 
On Florida's fair everglades, by bold Ontario's flood, 
And thro' them send electric life as leaps the kindred 

blood ! 
For thus it is they taught us who for Freedom lived 

and died, 
The Eternal's law of justice must and shall be justified — 
That God has joined together by a fiat all divine 
The destinies of dwellers 'neath the Palm-tree and the 

Pine. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 3I9 

God plant them still together ! let them flourish side 

by side 
In the halls of our Centennial — mailed in more than 

marble pride ; 
With kindly deeds and noble names we '11 grave them 

o'er and o'er 
With brave historic legends of the glorious days of 

yore; 
While the clear, exultant chorus, rising from united 

bands, 
The echo of our triumph peals to earth's remotest 

lands — 
While " Faith, Fraternity, and Love " shall joyfully 

entwine 
Around our chosen emblems — the Palmetto and the 

Pine. 

" Together ! " shouts Niagara his thunder-toned de- 
cree — 

" Together ! " echo back the waves upon the Mexic 
sea — 

" Together ! " sing the sylvan hills where old Atlantic 
roars — 

" Together I " boom the breakers on the wild Pacific 
shores — 

" Together ! " cry the people — and " together" it shall 
be, 

An everlasting charter-bond forever for the free ; 

Of liberty the Signet-seal — the one eternal sign 

Be those united emblems — the Palmetto and the Pine! 

Mrs. Virginia L, French. 



320 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY. 

SOFTLY, oh ! softly, the years have swept by thee, 
Touching thee lightly with tenderest care ; 
Sorrow and care did they often bring nigh thee ; 
Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear; 
Growing old gracefully, 
Gracefully fair. 

Far from the storms that are washing the ocean; 

Nearer each day to the pleasant home light; 
Far from the waves that are big with commotion, 
Under full sail and the harbor in sight! 
Growing old cheerfully, 
Cheerful and bright. 

Past all the winds that were adverse and chilling, 

Past all the islands that lured thee to rest; 
Past all the currents that lured the unwilling, 
Far from the port of the land of the blest, 
Growing old peacefully, 
Peaceful and blest. 

Never a feeling of envy or sorrow, 

Where the bright faces of children are seen, 
Never a year from their youth wouldst thou borrow, 
Thou dost remember what liest between. 
Growing old willingly, 
Gladly, I ween ! 

Rich in experience that angels might covet ; 
Rich in a faith that has grown with thy years; 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 321 

Rich in a love that grew from and above it, 
Soothing thy sorrows and hushing thy fears. 
Growing old wealthily, 
Loving and dear. 

Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened, 

Ready and willing thy hand to relieve ; 
Many a face at thy kind words has brightened, 
" It is more blessed to give than receive." 
Growing old happily; 

Blest, we believe. From Christian Globe. 



SCIENCE AND THE BIBLE. 

IT is unfortunate that it has come so widely to be 
assumed that there is somehow an essential con- 
flict between Science and the Bible, which does n't at 
all exist, and because it thus induces various false im- 
pressions, and seriously misleads many minds in re- 
spect to the whole subject, — especially many young 
minds with no actual information concerning it, but 
ambitious to seem wise in an acceptance of advanced 
thought, and in a superiority to old and outgrown 
superstitions. As a fact, there is and can be no con- 
flict between Science, that is really Science, and the 
Bible, — since both concern the doings of the same 
God, and He never contradicts himself .... I thank 
God every day for the Bible ; and I am anxious to help 
others to see how much reason we all have not only 
to thank Him for it, and for what it has done y but to 
cling to it with an increasing faith, in the assurance 
that it has more light and a larger ^measure of blessing 

V 



322 warren's select readings. 

yet to bestow. And so, every day, scarcely less I 
thank God for Science ; for the explorations it has 
made ; for the facts it has demonstrated ; for the larger 
and better knowledge of the universe it has given, 
enabling us to " read God's thoughts after Him ; " I 
wait in grateful expectation, ready thankfully to hail 
all new facts it may demonstrate, and to welcome every 
added light it can make in the cloudy horizon of our 
knowledge, and every fresh ray of light it can let in to 
lead us out into broader and more certain conclusions. 

Science and the Bible, indeed, are but the comple- 
ments of each other, as the necessary means of ac- 
quainting us with the two great departments of the 
universe in which we live, — pertaining, one to the 
Seen, the other to the Unseen, — one to the sensible 
and material, the other to the spiritual facts and realities 
within, above, and about us. Armed with retort and 
crucible, with telescopes and microscopes, Science goes 
forth pushing its way into the secrets of God's visible 
realm, disclosing how He has wrought and is working 
there. 

The Bible dealing with truths beyond our unaided 
reach, and so recording what men inspired of God 
have taught, takes us into the realm of the invisible, 
showing us what He has done, and is to do, and what 
He would have us do and believe there. And yet, 
though concerning departments of facts so different, 
and in a sense so opposite, the two are in entire ac- 
cord, and both in their place are equally necessary, if 
we would have the largest and most intelligent ac- 
quaintance with God's works and ways, and so be best 
furnished with the reasons why we should love and 
trust, admire and adore Him. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 323 

Let whatever treasures of truth, yet undiscovered, 
be gathered out of the Bible, still Science will always 
be necessary in its place ; and let Science add, no mat- 
ter how widely, to its discoveries, and do its utmost in 
opening fact, and affinity, and force, and law, there will 
still always remain a use for the Bible, and souls will 
be unfed and unsatisfied, and walk in the dark with- 
out it. 

The Bible is not a scientific treatise, and has very 
little to say about what can be called Science. It does 
record certain primary facts as to the creation and 
peopling of the world ; and there, though often at- 
tacked, Science never yet has invalidated, and never 
will. As to the rest, the Bible is simply the record of 
spiritual instructions given of God to man through 
human instruments. 

Science that is real science deals only with facts, and 
ventures upon, or asks acceptance for, any conclusions 
only so far as facts clearly authorize and compel it. 

For every fact demonstrated in the heavens above, 
or the earth, or the air, or the sea, we rejoice, fiot only 
because it will enlarge our acquaintance with the uni- 
verse, but because we are sure it will somehow confirm 
our faith in the Bible, and add yet another to the evi- 
dences of God's wisdom, love, and power. 

Rev. E. G. Brooks. 



THE VICTIM. 



A PLAGUE upon the people fell, 
A famine after laid them low, 
Then thorpe and byre rose in fire, 
For on them brake the sudden foe; 



324 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

So thick they died, the people cried : 

" The gods are moved against the land." 
The priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand. 

" Help us from famine 

And plague and strife ! 

What would you have of us? 

Human life? 

Were it our nearest, 

Were it our dearest, 

(Answer, O answer,) 

We give you his life." 



But still the foeman spoil'd and burn'd, 

And cattle died, and deer in wood, 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whitened all the rolling flood; 
And dead men lay all over the way, 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame; 
And ever and aye the priesthood moan'd, 
Till at last it seemed that an answer came : 
"The king is happy 
In child and wife; 
Take you his nearest, 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life." 

The priest went out by heath and hill; 

The king was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still; 

She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old, 

His beauty still with his years increased, 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 325 

m 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, * 

He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 

The priest exulted, 

And cried with joy: 

" Here is his nearest, 

Here is his dearest. 

We take the boy." 

The king returned from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said, "They have taken the child 

To spill his blood and heal the land: 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 

And blight and famine on all the lea: 
The holy gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son, 
They will have his life, 
Is he your nearest? 
Is he your dearest? 
(Answer, O answer,) 
Or I, the wife ? " 

The king then bent low, with hands on brow, 

He stay'd his arms upon his knee; 
" O, wife, what use to answer now ? 

For now the priest has judged for me." 
The king was shaken with holy fear; 

" That gods," he said, " would have chosen well ; 
Yet both are near, and both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell ! " 
But the priest was happy, 
His victim won. 
28 ■■ . . 



326 warren's select readings. 

" We have his nearest, 
We have his dearest, 
His only son ! V 

The rites prepared, the victim bared, 

The knife uprising toward the blow, 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

" Me, me, not him, my darling, no ! " 
He caught her away with a sudden cry, 

Suddenly from him brake the wife, 
And shrieking, " / am his dearest, I — 
/am his dearest!" rush'd on the knife. 
And the priest was happy: 
" Oh, Father Odin, 
We give you a life, 
Which was his nearest? 
Which was his dearest ? 
The gods have answered : 
We give them the wife ! " 

Alfred Tennyson. 



WRECK OF THE HURON. 

A FEW days ago, there went out from our Brooklyn 
Navy- Yard, a man-of-war, the Huron. She steamed 
down to Hampton Roads, dropped anchor for further 
orders, and then went on southward — one hundred 
and thirty-six souls on board — and the life of the 
humblest boy in sailor's jacket as precious as the life 
of the commander. 

There were storms in the air, the jibstay had been 
carried away, but what cares such a monarch of the 
deep for a hurricane ? All 's well at. twelve o'clock at 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 327 

night! Strike eight bells! All's well at one o'clock 
in the morning ! Strike two bells ! How the water 
tosses from the iron prow of the Huron as she seems 
moving irresistibly on ! If a fishing-smack came in 
her way, she would ride it down and not know that 
she touched it. 

But, alas ! through the darkness she is aiming for 
Nag's head ! What is the matter with the compasses ? 
At one o'clock and forty minutes there is a harsh 
grating on the bottom of the ship, and the cry goes 
across the ship, "What's the matter?" Then the 
sea lifts up the ship to let her fall en the breakers — 
Shock ! shock ! shock ! The dreadful command of 
the captain rings across the deck and is repeated 
among the hammocks, "All hands save the ship." 
Then comes the thud of the axe in answer to the 
order to cut away the mast. Overboard go the guns. 
They are of no use in this battle with the wind and 
wave. 

Heavier and heavier the vessel falls till the timbers 
begin to crack. The work of death goes on, every 
surge of the sea carrying more men from the fore- 
castle, and reaching up its briny fingers to those hang- 
ing in the rigging. Numb and frozen, they hold on 
and lash themselves fast; while some, daring each 
other to the undertaking, plunge into the beating surf 
and struggle for the land. Oh, cruel sea ! Pity them, 
as, bruised and mangled and with broken bones, they 
make desperate efforts for dear life. For thirty miles 
along the beach the dead of the Huron are strewn, 
and throughout the land there is weeping and lamen- 
tation and great woe. 

A surviving officer of the vessel testifies that the 



328 warren's select readings. 

conduct of the men was admirable. It is a magnifi- 
cent thing to see a man dying at his post, doing his 
whole duty. Who can see such things without think- 
ing of the greatest deed of these nineteen centuries, 
the pushing out of the Chieftain of the Universe to 
take the human race off the wreck of the world. 

Rev. T. De Witt Talmage. 



LITTLE FOXES. 

LITTLE foxes spoiling 
The beloved vine 
Trusted to my tending 

By the One Divine — 
Little foxes, wherefore 

Have ye entrance found 
To the vine so precious 
Growing in my ground ? 

Have ye leaped the fences? 

Have ye climbed the wall ? 
Were there tiny openings? 

Ye are very small — 
And ye can creep slyly 

Through a tiny space ; 
But, I thought I closed up 

Every open place. 

And I watch by daytime, 
And I watch by night, 

For the vine you 're spoiling 
Is my heart's delight! 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 329 

I have kept the earth-worm 

From its precious root; 
I have trimmed its branches, 

But they bear no fruit. 

For the little foxes 

Have assailed the vine 
Trusted to my tending 

By the One Divine; 
And though I Ve been faithful 

Since its birthday morn, 
They were in the garden 

When the babe was born. 

For they are the failings 

That I would not see 
When they were my failings, 

When they dwelt in me ; 
Little faults unheeded 

That I now despise, 
For my baby took them 

With my hair and eyes. 

And I chide her often, 

For I know I must, 
But I do it always 

Bowed down to the dust, 
With a face all crimsoned 

With a burning blush, 
And an inward whisper 

That I cannot hush. 

And sometimes it seemeth 

Like the voice of God — 

28* 



330 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

And it says, " Poor coward, 

Using now the rod 
On a child's frail body 

Till I hear it moan, 
And see its soft flesh quiver 

For a sin thine own ! " 

Oh, my Father, pity, 

Pity and forgive : 
Slay the little foxes 

I allowed to live 
Till they left the larger 

For the smaller vine, 
Till they touched the dear life 

Dearer far than mine. 

Oh, my Father, hear me, 

Make my darling thine, 
Though I am so human, 

Make her all divine! 
Slay the little foxes, 

That both vines may be 
Ladened with fruit worthy 

To be offered Thee. 

Mrs. Mary Cram. 



"NOT TO MYSELF ALONE." 

NOT to myself alone," 
The little opening flower transported cries, 
" Not to myself alone I bud and bloom ; 
With fragrant breath the breezes I perfume, 
And gladden all things with my rainbow dyes. 



warren's select readings. 331 

The bee comes sipping every eventide 

His dainty fill ; 
The butterfly within my cup doth hide 

From threatening ill." 

" Not to myself alone," 
The circling star with honest pride doth boast, 
"Not to myself alone I rise and set; 
I write upon night's coronal of jet 
His power and skill who formed our myriad host — 
A friendly beacon at heaven's open gate, 

I gem the sky, 
That man might ne'er forget, in every fate, 
His home on high." 

"Not to myself alone," 
The heavy-laden bee doth murmuring hum, 
" Not to myself alone, from flower to flower, 
I rove the wood, the garden, and the bower, 
And to the hive at evening weary^ come ; 
For man, for man, the luscious food I pile 

With busy care, 
Content if he repay my ceaseless toil 
With scanty share." 

"Not to myself alone," 
The soaring bird with lusty pinion sings, 
" Not to myself alone I raise my song ; 
I cheer the drooping with my warbling tongue, 
And bear the mourner on my viewless wings ; 
I bid the hymnless churl my anthem learn, 

And God adore ; 
I call the worldling from his dross to turn, 
And sing and soar." 



332 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

"Not to myself alone," 
The streamlet whispers on its pebbly way, 
" Not to myself alone I sparkling glide ; 
I scatter health and life on every side, 
And strew the fields with herb and floweret gay; 
I sing unto the common, bleak and bare, 

My gladsome tune ; 
I sweeten and refresh the languid air 
In droughty June." 

" Not to myself alone ! " 
O man, forget not thou,— earth's honored priest, 
Its tongue, its soul, its life, its pulse, its heart, — 
In earth's great chorus to sustain thy part ! 
Chiefest of guests at Love's ungrudging feast, 
Play not the niggard; spurn thy native clod, 

And self disown ; 
Live to thy neighbor; live unto thy God; 
Not to thyself alone! 



A YOUNG LADY'S MEDITATIONS IN CHURCH. 

WELL ! I 'm glad I 'm not late. Wish I had a back 
seat ; hate to be before every one ; think they 
are all looking at me. 

There he comes ! 

Think he ought to be ashamed of being always late. 
Wonder where he got that new neck-tie ? Wonder if 
it 's paid for ? Wonder if he does really care anything 
about me, or if he is only carrying on ? Think he 
ought to be ashamed to be going from one girl to 
another the whole time. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 333 

Wish the choir would sing livelier tunes ! Suppose 
I ought to sing. " This world is all a fleeting show." 
Why, there is Miss Kate, late, as usual. That is the 
sixth bonnet she has had this season, — "for man's 
illusion given." Hate to have any one looking over 
the same hymn-book with me, — wrinkles my dress ! 
"There 's nothing true but heaven." I do think it's 
a shame for Miss J. to be looking around that* way 
during the long prayer ; and there 's Jack, too, he has 
done nothing but play with his hymn-book the whole 
time. I think it is real wicked ! Wonder how long 
he 's going to preach ? 

Now I will listen, and see if I can't remember the 
heads of the sermon. How would it do to take notes ? 
How would I look writing away for dear life ? Mr. 
Smith used to take notes ; but then he is a good deal 
of an old stick. 

But I 'm getting off the subject. 

That 's a fine idea ! Wonder if it 's original ? 
Wonder how long it takes him to write his sermons? 
Believe /could write one in less than a week. Might 
put in some of my old compositions. No; I don't be- 
lieve they would mix well. 

Wonder what time it is ? Wish I had a watch ! I 'd 
have it gold and hunting case; no, I'd have it open 
face. I 'd want it to have plenty of jewels. Wonder 
why they always put the jewels of a watch on the in- 
side? I 'd have mine on the outside, where everybody 
could see them. 

Wonder which would look best, diamonds or ru- 
bies ? I 'd have diamonds, — no, I 'd have rubies, — 
no, diamonds cost the most ; I 'd have diamonds. Oh, 
dear, I wish I was rich ! I 'd be so good. Wonder if 
I '11 go to heaven ? 



334 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Now I will listen to the sermon. Why, he has only 
got to the second head ! Wonder what time it is ? 

Dear, dear, I wish I knew as much about the Jews 
as he does. Wonder how the Jews made their living 
before there were any second-hand clothes ? Wonder 
if they invented Jews-harps ? Never could play one. 
Could n't get my tongue right. Jack says it 's because 
it 's too long. It is n't as long as some peoples. 

Wonder if he will ever be done ? 

Wonder if dinner '11 be ready when I get home ? 

Now I will listen, and it will seem short. Oh ! 
there 's a spider ! he 's coming right this way ! What 
shall I do ? If he falls on me, I believe I shall scream 
out ; no, I '11 faint. Wonder how I 'd look fainting ? 
Wonder if the preaching would stop ? 

Wonder if they 'd carry me out or lay me down on 
the pew ? Would hate to have Mr. Smith carry me 
out, my curls might fall off. Guess I won't faint. 

Wish that spider would go away. 

Why, there he is shutting up the Bible, and I Ve 
heard scarcely any of the sermon. Well, it 's not my 
fault, it 's the spider's. Anyhow, I got as much good 
as Miss J. did, looking around the church the whole 
time. 



THE MORAL QUALITIES OF VEGETABLES. 

1AM more and more impressed with the moral quali- 
ties of vegetables, and contemplate forming a science 
which shall rank with comparative anatomy and com- 
parative philology — the science of comparative vege- 
table morality. 



warren's select readings. 335 

This matter of vegetable rank has not been at all 
studied as it should be. Why do we respect some 
vegetables, and despise others, when all of them come 
to an equal honor or ignominy on the table ? 

The bean is a graceful, confiding, engaging vine ; 
but you never can put beans into poetry, nor into the 
highest sort of prose. There is no dignity in the bean. 
Corn, which, in my garden, grows alongside the bean, 
and, so far as I can see, with no affectation of superiority, 
is, however, the child of song. It waves in all litera- 
ture. But mix it with beans, and its high tone is gone. 
Succotash is vulgar. It is the bean in it. The bean 
is a vulgar vegetable, without culture, or any flavor of 
high society among vegetables. Then there is the cool 
cucumber, like so many people, — good for nothing 
when it is ripe, and the wildness has not gone out of 
it. How inferior in quality it is to the melon, which 
grows upon a similar vine; it is of a like watery con- 
sistency, but not half so valuable ! The cucumber is 
a sort of low comedian in a company where the melon 
is a minor gentleman. I might also contrast the celery 
with the potato. The associations are as opposite as 
the dining-room of the duchess and the cabin of the 
peasant. I admire the potato, both in vine and blos- 
som ; but it is not aristocratic. 

The lettuce is to me a most interesting study. Let- 
tuce is like conversation : it must be fresh and crisp, 
so sparkling, that you scarcely notice the bitter in it. 
Lettuce, like most talkers, is, however, apt to run 
rapidly to seed. Blessed is that sort which comes to 
a head, and so remains, like a few people I know; 
growing more solid and satisfactory, and tender at the 
same time, and whiter at the centre, and crisp in their 



336 warren's select readings. 

maturity. Lettuce, like conversation, requires a good 
deal of oil to avoid friction, and keep the company 
smooth; a pinch of attic salt; a dash of pepper; a 
quantity of mustard and vinegar, by all means, but so 
mixed that you will notice no sharp contrasts ; and a 
trifle of sugar. You can put anything, and the more 
things the better, into salad, as into a conversation ; 
but everything depends on the skill in the mixing. I 
feel that I am in the best society when I am with 
lettuce. It is in the select circle of vegetables. The 
tomato appears well on the table ; but you do not 
want to ask its origin. It is a most agreeable parvenu. 
I will not associate with any vegetable which is dis- 
reputable, or has not some quality that can contribute 
to my moral growth. I do not care to be seen much 
with the squashes or the dead beets. 

I do not know that chemistry is able to discover the 
tendency of vegetables. It can only be found by 
outward observation. I confess that I am suspicious of 
the bean, for instance. There are signs in it of an 
unregulated life. I put up the most attractive sort of 
poles for my Limas. They stand high and straight, 
like church-spires, in my theological garden, — lifted 
up; and some of them have even budded, like Aaron's 
rod. Some of them did run up the sticks seven feet, 
and then straggled off into the air in a wanton manner; 
but more than half of them went galivanting off to the 
neighboring grape-trellis, and wound their tendrils 
with the tendrils of the grape, with a disregard of the 
proprieties of life which is a satire upon human nature. 
And the grape is morally no better. 

Charles D. Warner. 






WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 337 

OUR COUNTRY TO-DAY. 

(from the centennial oration, by wm. m. evarts, at 
philadelphia, independence day, 1876.) 

UNION, liberty, power, prosperity — these are our 
possessions to-day. 

Our territory is safe against foreign dangers; its 
completeness dissuades from further ambitions to ex- 
tend it, and its rounded symmetry discourages all 
attempts to dismember it. No division into greatly 
unequal parts would be tolerable to either. No im- 
aginable union of interests or passions large enough 
to include one-half the country, but must embrace 
much more. The madness of partition into numer- 
ous and feeble fragments could proceed only from the 
hopeless degradation of the people, and would form 
but an incident in general ruin. 

The spirit of the nation is at the highest — its tri- 
umph over the inborn, inbred perils of the Constitution 
has cleared away all fears, justified all hopes, and with 
universal joy we greet this day. We have not proved 
unworthy of a great ancestry; we have had the virtue 
to uphold what they so wisely, so firmly established. 
With these proud possessions of the past, with powers 
matured, with principles settled, with habits formed, 
the nation passes, as it were, from preparatory growth 
to responsible development of character and the steady 
performance of duty. What labors await it, what trials 
shall attend it, what triumphs for human nature, what 
glory for itself, are prepared for this people in the 
coming century, we may not assume to foretell. 

" One generation passeth away, and another gener- 
ation cometh, but the earth abideth forever," and we 
29 W 



338 warren's select readings. 

reverently hope that these our constituted liberties 
shall be maintained to the unending line of our pos- 
terity, and so long as the earth itself shall endure. 

In the great procession of nations, in the great 
march of humanity, we hold our place. Peace is our 
duty, peace is our policy. In its arts, its labors, and 
its victories, then, we find scope for all our energies, 
rewards for all our ambitions, renown enough for all 
our love and fame. 

In the august presence of so many nations, which, 
by their representations, have done us the honor to 
be witnesses of our commemorative joy and gratula- 
tion, and in sight of the collected evidences of the 
greatness of their own civilization with which they, 
grace our celebration, we may well confess how much 
we fall short, how much we have to make up, in the 
emulative competitions of the times. Yet, even in 
this presence, and with a just deference to the age, 
the power, the greatness of the other nations of the 
earth, we do not fear to appeal to the opinion of man- 
kind, whether, as we point to our land, our people, and 
our laws, the contemplation should not inspire us with 
a lover's enthusiasm for our country. 

Time makes no pauses in his march. Even while 
I speak, the last hour of the receding is replaced by 
the first hour of the coming century, and reverence 
for the past gives way to the joys and hopes, the ac- 
tivities and responsibilities of the future. A hundred 
years hence the piety of that generation will recall the 
ancestral glory which we celebrate to-day, and crown 
it with the plaudits of a vast population which no 
man can number. By the mere circumstance of this 
periodicity, our generation will be in the minds, in the 



339 

hearts, on the lips of our countrymen, at the next 
Centennial commemoration in comparison with their 
own character and condition and with the great fond- 
ness of the nation. What shall they say of us ? How 
shall they estimate the part we bear in the unbroken 
line of the nation's progress ? And so on, in the long 
reach of time forever and forever, our place in the 
secular roll of the ages must always bring us into 
observation and criticism. Under this double trust, 
then, from the past and for the future, let us take heed 
to our ways, and, while it is called to-day, resolve that 
the great heritage we have received shall be handed 
down through the long line of the advancing genera- 
tions, the home of liberty, the abode of justice, the 
stronghold of faith among men, " which holds the moral 
elements of the world together," and of faith in God, 
which binds that world to His throne. 



RETURN OF THE HILLSIDE LEGION. 



w 



HAT telegraphed word 
The village hath stirred? 
Why eagerly gather the people; 
And why do they wait 
At crossing and gate — 
Why flutters the flag on the steeple? 

Why, stranger, do tell — 

It's now a smart spell 
Since our sogers went marchin' away, 

And we calculate now 

To show the boys how 
We can welcome the Legion to-day. 



340 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Bill Allendale's drum 

Will sound when they come ; 

And there's watchers above on the hill, 
To let us all know 
When the big bugles blow, 

To hurrah with a hearty good will. 

All the women folks wait 

By the 'Cademy gate, 
With posies all drippin' with dew ; 

The Legion shan't say 

We helped them away, 
And forgot them when service was through. 

My Jack 's comin' too, 

He 's served the war through : 
Hark, the rattle and roar of the train ! 

There's bugle and drum, 

Our sogers have come ! 
Hurrah! for the boys home again. * 

" Stand aside ! stand aside ! 

Leave a space far and wide 
Till the regiment forms on the track." 

Two soldiers in blue, 

Two men — only two — 
Stepped off, and the Legion was back. 

The hurrah softly died, 

In the space far and wide, 
As they welcomed the worn, weary men ; 

The drum on the hill 

Grew suddenly still, 
And the bugle was silent again. 



warren's select readings. 341 

I asked Farmer Shore 

A question no more, 
For a sick soldier lay on his breast! 

While his hand, hard and brown, 

Stroked tenderly down 
The locks of the weary at rest. 

Ethel Lynn. 



HYMN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI AT 
SUNRISE. 

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O Sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 
29* 



342 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

Into the mighty vision passing — there, 
As in her natural form swelled vast to heaven ! 
Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn ! 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, wake ! oh, wake ! and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered, and the same forever ? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came), 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 



warren's select readings. 343 

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer : and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice ! 
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

S. T. Coleridge. 



TRUE NOBILITY. 



TRUE worth is in being, not seeming, 
In doing each day that goes by 
Some little good, not in dreaming 

Of great things to do by and by. 
For whatever men say in their blindness, 

And in spite of the fancies of youth, 
There is nothing so kingly as kindness, 
And nothing so royal as truth. 

We get our mete as we measure; 

We cannot do wrong and feel right, 
Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure; 

For justice avenges each slight. 



344 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

The air for the wing of the sparrow, 
The birch for the robin and wren, 

But alway the path that is narrow 
And straight for the children of men. 

'T is not in the pages of story 

The heart of its ills to beguile, 
Though he who makes courtship to glory, 

Gives all that he hath for her smile. 
And when from her heights he has won her, 

Alas! 'tis -only to prove 
That nothing's so sacred as honor, 

And nothing so loyal as love. 

We cannot make bargains of blisses, 

Nor catch them like fishes in nets; 
And sometimes the thing that life misses 

Helps more than the thing which it gets. 
For good lieth not in pursuing, 

Nor gaining of great nor of small, 
But just in the doing and doing 

As we would be done by, — is all. 

Through envy, through hatred, through malice, 

Against all the world early and late, 
No jot of our courage abating, 

Our part is to labor and wait. 
And slight is the sting of his trouble 

Whose winnings are less than his worth, 
For he who is honest is noble 

Whatever his fortunes or birth. 

Alice Cary. 



warren's select readings. 345 

THE LAST HYMN. 

THE Sabbath-day was ending in a village by the 
sea, 
The uttered benediction touched the people ten- 
derly, 
And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, 

lighted west, 
And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed 
boon of rest. 

But they looked across the waters, and a storm was 
raging there ; 

A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit of 
the air — 

And it lashed and shook, and tore them till they thun- 
dered, groaned, and boomed, . 

And, alas, for any vessel in their yawning gulf en- 
tombed. 

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of 
Wales, 

Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling 
awful tales, 

When the sea had spent its passion and should cast 
upon the shore 

Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it had done here- 
tofore. 

With the rough wind blowing round her, a brave wo- 
man strained her eyes, 

And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and 
rise. 



346 warren's select readings. 

Oh ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end 

must be, 
For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on 

such a sea. 



Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and 
thronged the beach. 

Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to 
reach ! 

Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts 
grew cold with dread, 

And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock- 
shore sped. 

" She has parted in the middle ! Oh, the half of her 

goes down ! 
God have mercy ! Is His heaven far to seek for those 

who drown ? " 
Lo ! when next the white, shocked faces looked with 

terror on the sea, 
Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to 

be. 

Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck 
tossed by the wave, 

And the man still clung and floated, though no power 
on earth could save. 

" Could we send him a short message ? Here 's a 
trumpet, shout away ! " 

'T was the preacher's hand that took it, and he won- 
dered what to say. 



warren's select readings. 347 

Any memory of his sermon ? Firstly ? Secondly ? 

Ah, no. 
There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of 

woe. 
So he shouted through the trumpet, " Look to Jesus ! 

Can you hear ? " 
And "Aye, aye, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the waters 

loud and clear. 

Then they listened. "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of 

my soul,' " 
And the winds brought back the echo, "While the 

nearer waters roll." 
Strange indeed it was to hear him, " Till the storm of 

life is past," 
Singing bravely o'er the waters, " Oh, receive my soul 

at last." 

He could have no other refuge, " Hangs my helpless 

soul on thee." 
" Leave, oh ! leave me not " — the singer dropped at 

last into the sea. 
And the watchers looking homeward, through their 

eyes by tears made dim, 
Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of 

that hymn." — Marianne Farningham. 



MARK TWAIN ON THE WEATHER. 

OLD Probabilities has a mighty reputation for accu- 
rate prophecy, and thoroughly well deserves it. 
You take up the papers and observe how crisply and 
confidently he checks off what to-day's weather is 



348 warren's select readings. 

going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the Middle 
States, in the Wisconsin region ; see him sail along in 
the joy and pride of his power till he gets to New 
England. He does n't know what the weather is to 
be in New England. He can't any more tell than he 
can tell how many Presidents of the United States 
there are going to be. Well, he mulls over it, and by 
and by he gets out something about like this : " Proba- 
ble northeast to southeast winds, varying to the south- 
ward, and westward, and eastward, and points between; 
high and low barometer, sweeping around from place 
to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and 
drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with 
thunder and lightning." 

Then he jots down this postscript, from his wander- 
ing mind, to cover accidents: " But it is possible that 
the programme may be wholly changed in the mean- 
time." 

Yes, one of the brightest gems in the New England 
weather is the dazzling uncertainty of it. There is 
only one thing certain about it — you are certain there 
is going to be plenty of weather. A perfect grand re- 
view ; but you never can tell which end of the proces- 
sion is going to move first. You fix up for the drought; 
you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out 
with your sprinkling-pot, and ten to one you get 
drowned. You make up your mind that the earth- 
quake is due ; you stand from under and take hold of 
something to steady yourself, and the first thing you 
know you get struck by lightning. 

These are great disappointments ; but they can't be 
helped. And the thunder. When the thunder com- 
mences merely to tune up, and scrape, and saw, and 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 349 

key up the instruments for the performance, strangers 
say, " Why, what awful thunder you have here ! " 
Now as to the size of the weather in New England 

— lengthways, I mean — it is utterly disproportionate 
to the size of that little country. Half the time, when 
it is packed as full as it can stick, you will see that 
New England weather striking out beyond the edges 
and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles 
over the neighboring States. She can't hold a tenth 
part of her weather. 

I could speak volumes about the inhuman perver- 
sity of the New England weather, but I will give but 
a single specimen. I like to hear rain on a tin roof, 
so I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye to 
that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on 
the tin ? No, sir ; skips it every time. 

Mind, I have been trying merely to do honor to the 
New England weather; no language could do it jus- 
tice. But after all there are at least one or two things 
about that weather (or, if you please, effects produced 
by it) which we residents would not like to part with. 
If we had not our bewitching autumn foliage, we 
should still have to credit the weather with one 
feature which compensates for all its bullying vagaries 

— the ice-storm — when a leafless tree is clothed with 
ice from the bottom to the top — ice that is as bright and 
clear as crystal ; every bough and twig is strung with 
ice-beads, frozen dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles, 
cold and white, like the Shah of Persia's diamond plume. 
Then the wind waves the branches, and the sun comes 
out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to 
prisms, that glow and hum and flash with all manner 
of colored fires, which change and change again with 

30 



350 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

inconceivable rapidity, from blue to red, from red to 
green, and green to gold ; the tree becomes a sparkling 
fountain, a very explosion of dazzling jewels, and it 
stands there the acme, the climax, the supremest 
possibility in art or nature of bewildering, intoxi- 
cating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make 
the words too strong. 

Month after month I lay up hate and grudge against 
the New England weather; but when the ice-storm 
comes at last, I say, " There, I forgive you now ; the 
books are square between us ; you don't owe me a 
cent ; go and sin no more ; your little faults and foibles 
count for nothing; you are the most enchanting weather 
in the world." — S. L. Clemens, 



JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG. 

HAVE you heard the story the gossips tell 
Of John Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well ! 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
Briefer the story of poor John Burns ; 
He was the fellow who won renown — 
The only man who did n't back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town; 
But held his own in the fight next day, 
When all his townsfolk ran away. 
That was in July, sixty-three — 
The very day that General Lee, 
The flower of Southern chivalry, 
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 



warren's select readings. 351 

I might tell you how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage-door, 
Looking down the village street, 

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine, 
And felt their breath with incense sweet; 
Or, I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 
The milk that fell in a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail, red as blood ; 
Or, how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 
But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 
Troubled no more by fancies fine 
Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine — 
Quite old-fashioned, and matter-of-fact, 
Slow to argue, but quick to act. 
That was the reason, as some folks say, 
He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Raged for hours the heavy fight, 
Thundered the battery's double bass — 
Difficult music for men to face; 
While on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all the day unceasing swept 
Up to the pits the rebels kept — 
Round shot ploughed the upland glades, 
Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 



352 warren's select readings. 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their splinters in the air; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 
Erect and lonely, stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed? 
He wore an ancient, long buff vest, 
Yellow as saffron — but his best; 
And, buttoned over his manly breast, 
Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar, 
And large gilt buttons — size of a dollar- — 
With tails that country-folk called "swaller." 
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 
White as the locks on which it sat. 
Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village-green, 
Since John Burns was a country beau, 
And went to the " quilting" long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day 
Veterans of the Peninsula, 
Sunburnt and bearded, charged away, 
And striplings, downy of lip and chin,— 
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 353 

Glanced as they passed at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore; 

And hailed him from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 

" How are you, White Hat ? " " Put her through ! " 

" Your head 's level ! " and, " Bully for you ! " 

Called him "Daddy" — and begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off — • 

With his long, brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 
Which clothes all courage their voices checked; 
And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old-bell crown ; 
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair 
The Past of the Nation in battle there. 
And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 
Thus raged the battle. You know the rest; 
How the rebels, beaten, and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 
At which John Burns — a practical man — 
30* X 



354 warren's select readings. 

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

This is the story of old John Burns; 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question 's whether 
You '11 show a hat that 's white, or a feather. 

Bret Harte. 



SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 

SCATTER the germs of the beautiful, 
By the wayside let them fall, 
That the rose may spring by the cottage-gate, 

And the vine on the garden wall ; 
Cover the rough and the rude of earth 

With a veil of leaves and flowers, 
And mark with the opening bud and cup 
The march of summer hours. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 

In the holy shrine of home; 
Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful there 

In the loveliest lustre come ; 
Leave not a trace of deformity 

In the temple of the heart, 
But gather about its hearth the gems * 

Of nature and of art ! 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 

In the temples of our God — 
The God who starred the uplifted sky, 

And flowered the trampled sod ! 



warren's select readings. 355 

When he built a temple for himself, 

And a home for his priestly race, 
He reared each arm in symmetry, 

And covered each line in grace. 

Scatter the germs of the beautiful 

In the depths of the human soul ! 
They shall bud, and blossom, and bear the fruit, 

While the endless ages roll; 
Plant with the flowers of charity 

The portals of the tomb, 
And the fair and pure about thy path 

In Paradise shall bloom. 



THE BUREAU-DRAWER. 

THE man who will invent a bureau-drawer which 
will move out and in without a hitch, will not only 
secure a fortune, but will attain to an eminence in his- 
tory not second to the greatest warriors. There is 
nothing, perhaps (always excepting a stove-pipe), that 
will so exasperate a man as a bureau-drawer which 
will not shut. 

It is a deceptive article. It will start off all right ; 
then it pauses at one end, while the other swings in as 
far as it can. It is the custom to throw the whole 
weight of the person against the end which sticks. 
If any one has succeeded in closing a drawer by so 
doing, he will confer a favor by sending his address 
to this office. Mrs. Holcomb was trying to shut a 
bureau -drawer on Saturday morning ; but it was an 
abortive effort. Finally she burst into tears. Then 



356 warren's select readings. 

Mr. Holcomb told her to stand aside, and see him 
do it. 

" You see," observed Mr. Holcomb with quiet dig- 
nity, " that the drawer is all awry. That 's what makes 
it stick. Now, anybody but a woman would see at 
once, that to move a drawer standing in that position 
would be impossible. I now bring out this end even 
with the other — so ; then I take hold of both knobs, 
and, with an equal pressure from each hand, the drawer 
moves easily in. See?" 

The dreadful thing moved readily forward for a dis- 
tance of nearly two inches ; then it stopped abruptly. 

"Ah ! " observed Mrs. Holcomb, beginning to look 
happy again. 

Mr. Holcomb very properly made no response to 
this ungenerous expression ; but he gently worked 
each end of the drawer to and fro, but without success. 
Then he pulled the drawer all the way out, adjusted it 
properly, and started it carefully back ; it moved as if 
it was on oiled wheels. Mr. Holcomb smiled. Then 
it stopped. Mr. Holcomb looked solemn. 

" Perhaps you ain't got the ends adjusted," suggested 
the unhappy Mrs. Holcomb. 

Mr. Holcomb made no reply. He pushed harder at 
the drawer than was apparent to her ; but it did n't 
move. He tried to bring it back again ; but it would 
not come. 

"Are you sure you have got everything out of here 
you want ? " he finally asked, with a desperate effort 
to appear composed. 

" Oh ! that 's what you are stopping for, is it ? But 
you need n't. I have got what I wanted ; you can shut 
it right up." Then she smiled a very wicked smile. 



warren's select readings. 357 

He grew redder in the face, and set his teeth firmly- 
together, and put all his strength to the obdurate 
drawer, while a hard look gleamed in his eye. But 
it did not move. He pushed harder. 

" Ooh, ooh ! " he groaned. 

" I 'm afraid you have n't got the ends adjusted," she 
maliciously suggested. 

A scowl settled on his face, while he strained every 
muscle in the pressure. 

" I 'd like to know what in thunder you 've been 
doing to this drawer, Jane Holcomb ? " he jerked out. 

" I hain't done anything to it," she replied. 

" I know better," he asserted. 

"Well, know what you please, for all I care," she 
sympathizingly retorted. 

The cords swelled up on his neck, and the corners 
of his mouth grew white. 

" I '11 shut that drawer, or I '11 know the reason of 
it!" he shouted; and he jumped up, and gave it a 
passionate kick. 

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. 

He dropped on his knees again, grabbed hold of 
the knobs, and swayed and pushed at them with all 
his might. But it did n't move. 

"Why, in the name of common sense, don't you 
open the window? Do you want to smother me?" 
he passionately cried. 

It was warm, dreadfully warm. The perspiration 
stood in great drops on his face or ran down into his 
neck. The birds sang merrily out the door, and the 
glad sunshine lay in golden sheets upon the earth; 
but he did not notice them. He would have given 
five dollars if he had not touched the obstinate bureau; 



358 warren's select readings. 

he would have given ten if he never had been born. 
He threw all his weight on both knobs. It moved then. 
It went to its place with a suddenness that threw him 
from his balance, and brought his burning face against 
the bureau with force enough to skin his nose, and 
fill his eyes with water to a degree that was blinding. 
Then he went out on the back-stoop and sat there 
for an hour, scowling at the scenery. 

J. M. Bailey. (The Danbury Nezvs Man.) 



ROMEO'S BANISHMENT. 

Romeo, just after being married to Juliet, is sentenced to 
banishment for killing Tybalt. 

FRIAR. I bring thee tidings of the prince's doom. 
Rom. What less than dooms-day is the prince's 
doom ? 

Fri. A gentler judgment vanished from his lips, 
Not body's death, but body's banishment. 

Rom. Ha! banishment? be merciful, say — death: 
For exile hath more terror in his look, 
Much more than death : do not say — banishment. 

Fri. Hence from Verona art thou banished : 
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. 

Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, 
Hence banished is banished from the world, 
And world's exile is death: — then banishment 
Is death mis-termed : calling death — banishment, 
Thou cutt'st my head off with a golden axe, 
And smil'st upon the stroke that murders me. 

Fri. O deadly sin ! O rude unthankfulness ! 
Thy fault our law calls death ; but the kind prince, 



warren's select readings. 359 

Taking thy part, hath rushed aside the law, 

And turned that black word death to banishment : 

This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. 

Rom. 'T is torture, and not mercy : heaven is here, 
Where Juliet lives ; and every cat, and dog, and little 

mouse, every unworthy thing, 
Live here in heaven and may look on her, 
But Romeo may not, — More validity, 
More honorable state, more courtship lives 
In carrion flies, than Romeo : they may seize 
On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand, 
And steal immortal blessing from her lips : 
But Romeo may not : he is banished : 
Flies may do this, when I from this must fly ; 
They are free men, but I am banished. 
And sayest thou yet, that exile is not death ? 
Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, 
No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, 
But — banished — to kill me; banished? 
How hast thou the heart, 
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, 
A sin-absolver, and my friend professed, 
To mangle me with that word — banishment? 

Fri. Thou fond mad man, hear me but speak a word. 

Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. 

Fri. I '11 give thee armor to keep off that word ; 
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy ! 
To comfort thee, though thou art banished. 

Rom. Yet banished ? — Hang up philosophy ! 
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, 
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom ; 
It helps not, it prevails not, talk no more. 

Fri. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. 



360 warren's select readings. 

Rom. How should they, when that wise men have 

no eyes ? 
Fri. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. 
Rom. Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not 
feel : 
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, 
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, 
Doting like me, and like me banished, 
Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear thy 

hair, 
And fall upon the ground, as I do now, 
Taking the measure of an unmade ^grave. 

Shakespeare. 



THE BALLAD OF BABIE BELL. 

HAVE you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Babie Bell 
Into this world of ours ? 
The gates of heaven were left ajar; 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of even, 
Its bridges running to and fro, 
O'er which the white-winged angels" go, 
Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels ! 

They fell like dew upon the flowers, 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet — 



warren's select readings. 361 

And thus came dainty Babie Bell 
Into this world of ours. 



She came and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves ; 

Like sunlight in and out the leaves, 
The robins went the livelong day; 
The lily swung its noiseless bell, 

And o'er the porch the trembling vine 

Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 
Oh, earth was full of singing birds, 

And opening spring-tide flowers, 
When the dainty Babie Bell 

Came to this world of ours! 

O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, 

How fair she grew from day to day ! 
What woman-nature filled her eyes, 

What poetry within them lay ! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright, 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more; 
Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely born : 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn. 
And for the love of those dear eyes, 
For love of her whom God led forth 
(The mother's being ceased on earth 



362 warren's select readings. 

When Babie came from Paradise), — 
For love of Him who smote our lives, 

And wove the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, Dear Christ! — our hearts bent down 

Like violets after rain. 

And now the orchards, which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime, 

• The clustered apples burnt like flame, 
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 

The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 
In little Babie Bell. 

Her lissome form more perfect grew, 
And in her features we could trace, 
In softened curves, her mother's face ! 

Her angel-nature ripened too. 
We thought her lovely when she came, 

But she was holy, saintly now : — 

Around her pale, angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame. 

God's hand had taken away the seal 
That held the portals of her speech ; 

And oft she said a few strange words 
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 

She never was a child to us, 

• We never held her being's key, 
We could not teach her holy things ; 

She was Christ's self in purity. 

It came upon us by degrees : 
We saw its shadow ere it fell, 



warren's select readings. 363 

The knowledge that our God had sent 

His messenger for Babie Bell. 
We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, 

And all our hopes were changed to fears, 

And all our thoughts ran into tears 
Like sunshine into rain. 
We cried aloud in our belief, 

" Oh, smite us gently, gently, God ! 

Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; 

Her heart was folded deep in ours. 
Our hearts are broken, Babie Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands : 
And what did dainty Babie Bell ? 

She only crossed her little hands, 
She only looked more meek and fair ! 
We parted back her silken hair, 
We wove the roses round her brow,— 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers ; 

And then went dainty Babie Bell 
Out of this world of ours. 

% B. Aldrich. 

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 

TOLL for the brave ! 
The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 
Fast by their native shore ! 



364 warren's SELECT READINGS. 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel keel, 
And laid her on her side; 

A land breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought; 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock ; 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down, 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up 

Once dreaded by our foes! 

And mingle with our cup 
The tear that England owes. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 
And they may float again, 

Full charged with England's thunder, 
And plough the distant main. 



warren's select readings. 365 

But Kempenfelt is gone ; 

His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 

Shall plough the waves no more. 

W. Cowper. 



WANT OF CONFIDENCE. 

A LITTLE Frenchman loaned a merchant five thou- 
sand dollars when "the times were good." He 
called at the counting-house, a few days since, in a 
state of agitation not easily described. 

"How do you do?" inquired the merchant. 

" Sick — ver sick," replied Monsieur. 

"What's the matter?" 

" De times is de matter." 

" De times ? — what disease is that ? " 

" De malaide vat break all the merchants ver much." 

"Ah — the times, eh ? — well, they are bad, very 
bad, sure enough ; but how do they affect you ? " 

"Vy, Monsieur, I lose de confidance." 

" In whom ? " 

" In everybody." 

"Not in me, I hope?" 

" Pardonnez moi, Monsieur; but I do not know who 
to trust a present, when all de marchants break several 
times all to pieces." 

" Then I presume you want your money ? " 

"Oui, Monsieur ; I starve for want of l'argent." 

" Can't you do without it ? " 

" No, Monsieur ; I must have him." 

"You must?" 
31* 



366 warren's select readings. 

"Oui, Monsieur," said the little Frenchman, turning 
pale with apprehension for the safety of his money. 

"And you can't do without it? " 

" No, Monsieur ; not von other leetle moment lon- 
gare." 

The merchant reached his bank-book, drew a check 
on the bank for the amount, and handed it to his 
visitor. 

" Vat is dis, Monsieur ? " 

"A check for five thousand dollars, with the in- 
terest." 

"Is it bon?" said the Frenchman, with amazement. 

"Certainly." 

" Have you de l'argent in de bank ? " 

" Yes." 

"And it is parfaitement convenient to pay de 
sum ? " 

" Undoubtedly. What astonishes you ? " 

"Vy, dat you have got him in dese times." 

"Oh, yes, and I have plenty more. I owe nothing 
that I cannot pay at a moment's notice." 

The Frenchman was perplexed. 

" Monsieur, you shall do me one leetle favor, eh ? " 

"With all my heart." 

"Veil, Monsieur, you shall keep de l'argent for me 
some leetle year longer." 

"Why, I thought you wanted it." 

" Tout au contraire. I no vant de l'argent ; I want 
de grand confidance. Suppose you no got de money, 
den I vant him ver much; suppose you got him, den 
I no vant him at all. Vous comprenez, eh ?" 

After some further conference, the little Frenchman 
prevailed upon the merchant to retain the money, and 



warren's select readings. 367 

left the counting-house with a light heart and a coun- 
tenance very different from the one he wore when he 
entered. His confidence was restored ; and although 
he did not stand in need of the money, he wished to 
know that his property was in safe hands. 

(This little sketch has a moral, which the reader can readily 
explain.) 



GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK. 

IT first took its place in the old homestead about 
sixty years ago. Grandfather and grandmother 
had just been married. That was a part of their out- 
fit. It called them to their first meal. There were 
the blue-edged dishes and bone-handled knives and 
homely fare, and an appetite sharpened on the wood- 
pile or by the snow-shovelling. As the clock tolled 
twelve of noon, the rugged pair, in home-made gar- 
ments, took their position at the table, and keeping 
time to the rattle of knives and forks and spoons, 
the clock went tick — tock! tick — tock ! 

There were the shining tin-pans on the shelf. 
There were the woollen mittens on the stand. There 
were the unpolished rafters overhead. There was the 
spinning-wheel in the corner. There was the hot fire, 
over which the apples baked till they had sagged 
down, brown and hissing hot, and the saucepan on 
the^ hearth was getting up the steam, the milk just 
lifting the lid to look out, and sputtering with passion, 
until with one sudden dash it streams into the fire, mak- 
ing the housewife rush with holder and tongs to the 
rescue. The flames leaped up around the back-log, 



368 warren's select readings. 

and the kettle rattled with the steam, and jocund 
laughter bounded away, and the old clock looked on 
with benignant face, as much as to say : " Grand sport. 
Happy pair. Good times. Clocks sympathize. Tick — 
tock! tick — tock!" 

The old timepiece kept account of the birthday of 
all the children. Eighteen times it tolled the old year 
out, and rung the new year in, when fair Isabel was 
married. The clock seemed to enjoy it all, and every 
moment had something to say : 

" I stood here when she was born. I was the only 
one present at the courtship. I told the young man 
when it was time to go, although sometimes he minded 
me not, and I had to speak again. I ordered the com- 
mencement of ceremonies. Good luck to Isabel, and 
an honest eight-day clock to bless her wherever she 
may go. Tick — tock ! tick — tock ! " 

After many years, grandfather became dull of hear- 
ing and dim of sight. He could not hear the striking 
of the hours, but came close up and felt of the hands, 
and said : 

" It is eight o'clock, and I must go to bed." He 
never rose again. 

All spake in a whisper, and moved around the room 
on tiptoe ; but there was one voice that would not be 
quieted. If the watchers said " Hush ! " it seemed to 
take up a louder tone. It was the old clock in the 
next room. At the wedding it laughed. Now it 
seemed to toll. Its wheels had a melancholy creak; 
its hands, as they passed over the face, trembled*and 
looked thin, like the fingers of an old man moving 
in a dying dream. Poor old clock ! 

The hand that every Saturday night for sixty years 



warren's select readings. 369 

has wound it up will soon be still. The iron pulses 
of the old timepiece seem to flutter, as though its 
own spirit were departing. Its tongue is thick; its 
face is white as one struck with death. 

But, just as grandfather's heart, after running for 
eighty years, ceased to tick, the old clock rallied, as 
much as to say : 

" It is the last thing I can do for him, and so 
I must toll the death-knell — One ! two ! three ! 
four ! five ! six ! seven ! eight ! nine ! ten ! eleven ! 
twelve ! " 

With that it stopped. 

Ingenious craftsmen attempted to repair it, and 
oiled the wheels and swung the pendulum. But it 
would not go ! Its race was run ; its heart was 
broken; its soul had departed. When grandfather 
died, the clock died with him. — T. De Witt Talmage. 



THE YOUNG GRAY-HEAD. 

I'M thinking that to-night, if not before, 
There '11 be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton 
roar? 
It 's brewing up, down westward ; and look there ! 
One of those sea-gulls ! ay, there goes a pair : 
And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on> 
As threats, the waters will be out anon. 
That path by the ford 's a dangerous bit of way — 
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. 

The children themselves join in this request; but 
the mother resolves that they shall set out — the two 

Y 



370 warren's select readings. 

girls, Lizzy and Jenny, the one five and the other 
seven. As the dame's will was law, so, 

One last fond kiss. 
" God bless my little maids ! " the father said, 
And cheerily went his way to win their bread. 

Prepared for their journey, they depart, with the 
mother's admonitions to the elder. 

" Now, mind and bring 
Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay 
To pull a bough or berry by the way ; 
And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast 
Your little sister's hand till you 're quite past — 
That plank 's so crazy, and so slippery, 
If not o'erflowed, the stepping-stones will be. 
But you 're good children — steady as old folk, 
I 'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak 
(A good gray duffle) lovingly she tied, 
And amply little Jennie's lack supplied 
With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, 
" To wrap it round, and knot it carefully 
(Like this) when you come home, just leaving free 
One hand to hold by. Now, make haste, away — 
Good-will to school, and then good right to play." 

The mother watched them as they went down the 
lane, overburdened with something like a foreboding 
of evil which she strove to overcome ; but could not 
during the day quite bear up against her own thoughts, 
especially as the threatened storm did at length truly 
set in. His labor done, the husband makes his three 



warren's select readings. 371 

miles' way homeward, until his cottage coming into 
view, all its pleasant associations of spring, summer, 
and autumn, with its thousand family delights, rush 
on hii heart : — 

There was a treasure hidden in his hat — 

A plaything for his young ones. He had found 

A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round 

For its long winter sleep ; and all his thought, 

As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught 

But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, 

And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, 

When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer, 

Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 

Out rushes his fondling dog Tinker, but no little 
faces greet him as wont at the threshold ; and to his 
hurried question, 

" Are they come ? — 't was no." 

To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
The old crack'd lantern from its dusty nook, 
And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word 
That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, 
Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
To where a fearful foresight led him on. 

A neighbor accompanies him ; and the faithful dog 
follows the children's track. 

" Hold the light 
Low down — he 's making for the water. Hark ! 
I know that whine. The old dog's found them, 
Mark." 



372 warren's select readings. 

So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 

Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone ! 

And all his dull contracted light could show 

Was the black, void, and dark swollen stream btlow. 

" Yet there 's life somewhere — more than Tinker's 

whine — 
That 's sure," said Mark. " So, let the lantern shine . 
Down yonder; there 's the dog — and hark ! " "Oh, 

dear!" 
And a low sob came faintly on the ear, 
Mock'd by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, 
Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught 
Fast hold of something — a dark, huddled heap — 
Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep 
For a tall man ; and half above it propp'd 
By some old ragged side-piles that had stopt 
Endways the broken plank when it gave way 
With the two little ones that luckless day. 
" My babes ! my lambkins ! " was the father's cry. 
One little voice made answer, " Here am I ! " 
'Twas Lizzy's. There she crouched, with face as 

white, 
More ghastly by the flickering lantern light, 
Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight, 
Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 
And eyes on some dark object underneath, 
Wash'd by the turbid water, fix'd like stone — 
One hand and arm stretch'd out, and rigid grown, 
Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. 
There she lay drowned. 

They lifted her from out her watery bed ; 
Its covering gone, the lovely little head 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 373 

Hung like a broken snow-drop, all aside, 

And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, 

Leaving that free about the child's small form, 

As was her last injunction, " fast and warm." 

Too well obey'd — too fast ! A fatal hold 

Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold, 

That caught and pinn'd her to the river's bed ; 

While through the reckless water overhead 

Her life-breath bubbled up. 

" She might have lived, 
Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived 
The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all, 
"But for my foolishness about that shawl" — a tor- 
ture aggravated by the tones of the surviving child, 
who half deliriously kept on ejaculating: 

" Who says I forgot ? 
Mother ! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, 
And tied the shawl quite close — she can't be cold — 
But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — 
But I held on — and I 'm so weary now — 
And it 's so dark and cold ! — oh, dear ! oh, dear ! — 
And she won't move — if father were but here ! " 

Thus all night long from side to side she turned, 
Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, 
With now and then the murmur, " She won't move." 
And lo ! when morning, as in mockery, bright, 
Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight — 
The young head's raven hair was streak'd with white ! " 

Caroline Southey. 
32 



374 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

HESPERUS. 

AWAKE, O beautiful Hesperus ! 
Awake ! for the day is done, 
And the royal purple curtains are drawn 
Round the couch of the sleeping sun; 
There is a hush on the blooming earth, 

And a hush on the beating sea, 
And silence, too, in the courts of Heaven, 
For the stars all wait for thee, 

Hesperus ! 
All things beautiful wait for thee! 

Tis the hour for fancy's fairy reign, 

When the glowing brain is fraught 
With visions of beauty, and bliss, and love, 

That leave no room for thought. 
With the light of warm and glorious dreams 

This narrow chamber is bright, 
And I need but thee to sing with me, 

O sweetest poet of night! 
Hesperus, 

Open thy volume of golden light. 

There may I read of the youth of old, 

Who clambered the mountain height, 
And talked with stars in the midnight hours, 

Till he faded from human sight — 
Till his brow grew bright with wonderful light, 

And away from the world's rude jars, 
He was lost in the beams of his radiant dreams, 

And himself was the fairest of stars. 
Hesperus ! 

The best beloved of the stars! 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 375 

There may I read this legend rare, 

And its beautiful meaning learn, 
While my soul, new kindled to hopes divine, 

With a holy fire shall burn. 
never should human heart despair 

Of the presence of God on high ; 

never should human faith grow dim, 
While the stars are in the sky ! 

Hesperus ! 
Thy voice is the voice of eternity. 

Thou art smiling down on me, Hesperus, 
With that smile upon my heart 

1 know that kindled to me and mine, 
In those measureless heights, thou art. 

When thy spirit blossomed into a star, 

In the mystical days of old, 
The love and the hope it bore on high, 

The legend hath never told 
Hesperus ! 

Thy sweetest story hath never been told. 

O to be like thee, Hesperus ! 

To climb the heights of truth, 
And there to drink of celestial airs, 

And to glow with immortal youth — 
There, wrapt in the light which is born in the skies, 

Where the blessed angels are, 
To hear earth's harmonies only rise 

Floating sweetly up from afar! 
Hesperus ! 

How can my spirit become a star? 



376 warren's select readings. 

A NATIONAL HYMN. 

UNION AND LIBERTY. 

FLAG of the heroes who left us their glory, 
Borne through their battle-fields' thunder and 
flame, 
Blazoned in song and illumined in story, 
Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame ! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
Union and Liberty ! One evermore ! 

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 
Pride of her children, and honored afar, 

Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
Scatter each cloud that would darken a star ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail thee, 
Rearing the standard of Liberty's van ? 

Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, 
Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 

Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must 
draw, 
Then, with the arms of thy millions united, 
Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law ! 
Up with our banner bright, etc. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 37/ 

Lord of the Universe ! shield us and guide us, 

Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun ! 
Thou hast united us: who shall divide us? 
Keep us, O keep us, the Many in One ! 
Up with our banner bright, 
Sprinkled with starry light, 
Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, 
While through the sounding sky 
Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
Union and Liberty ! One evermore ! 

0. W. Holmes. 



EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 

HAVING placed the king on his throne, it was her 
fortune thenceforward to be thwarted. More than 
one military plan was entered upon which she did not 
approve. Too well she felt that the end was now at 
hand. Still, she continued to expose her person in 
battle as before; severe wounds had not taught her 
caution ; and at length she was made prisoner by the 
Burgundians, and finally given up to the English. 
The object now was to vitiate the coronation of Charles 
VII. as the work of a witch ; and, for this end, Joan 
was tried for sorcery. She resolutely defended herself 
from the absurd accusation. 

Never, from the foundation of the earth, was there 
such a trial as this, if it were laid open in all its beauty 
of defence and all its malignity of attack. O child 
of France, shepherdess, peasant-girl ! trodden under 
foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing in- 
tellect, — quick as the lightning, and as true to its 

mark, — that ran before France and laggard Europe 
32* 



378 warren's select readings. 

by many a century, confounding the malice of the 
ensnarer, and making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! 
" Would you examine me as a witness against myself? " 
was the question by which many times she defied their 
arts. The result of this trial was the condemnation of 
Joan to be burnt alive. Never did grim inquisitors 
doom to death a fairer victim by baser means. 

Woman, sister ! there are some things which you do 
not execute as well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever 
will. Yet, sister, woman ! cheerfully, and with the 
love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge 
that you can do one thing as well as the best of men, — 
you can die grandly ! On the twentieth of May, 143 1, 
being then about nineteen years of age, Joan of Arc 
underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted before 
midday, guarded by eight hundred spearmen, to a plat- 
form of prodigious height, constructed of wooden bil- 
lets, supported by occasional walls of lath and plaster, 
and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for 
the creation of air currents. 

With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly 
demeanor, the maiden encountered her terrible fate. 
Upon her head was placed a mitre, bearing the inscrip- 
tion, " Relapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress." Her piety 
displayed itself in the most touching manner to the 
last, and her angelic forgetfulness of self was mani- 
fested in a remarkable degree. The executioner had 
been directed to apply his torch from below. He 
did so. The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing 
volumes. A monk was then standing at Joan's side. 
Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the danger, 
but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the 
last enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 379 

even at that moment did this noblest of girls think 
only for him, — the one friend that would not forsake 
her, — and not for herself; bidding him with her last 
breath to care for his own preservation, but to leave 
her to God. " Go down," she said ; " lift up the cross 
before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak to me 
pious words to the end." Then protesting her inno- 
cence, and recommending her soul to heaven, she con- 
tinued to pray as the flames leaped up and walled her 
in. Her last audible word was the name of Jesus. 
Sustained by faith in him, in her last fight upon the 
scaffold, she had triumphed gloriously; victoriously 
she had tasted death. 

Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened 
as to contain their tears. All the English, with the 
exception of a few soldiers who made a jest of the 
affair, were deeply moved. The French murmured 
that the death was cruel and unjust. " She dies a 
martyr ! " " Ah, we are lost, we have burned a saint ! " 
" Would to God that my soul were with hers ! " Such 
were the exclamations on every side. A fanatic Eng- 
lish soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on the 
funeral-pile, hearing Joan's last prayer to her Saviour, 
suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, saying every- 
where that he had seen a dove rising upon white wings 
to heaven from the ashes where she stood. 

Thomas De Qidncey. 



380 warren's select readings. 

THE WOOLEN DOLL. 

A maniac's story. 

AWEARY, cowering figure 
Huddling to the wall, 
A mass of golden hair, a sallow face, 

And that is all! 
A wretched, blank, lost mind, — 

Whose only thought 
Rests in the foolish toy 

The poor, thin hands have wrought. 

A simple woolen doll, 

Clasped to her lonely breast, 
Gazed wildly on at times, 

Then closer pressed. 
The others sneeringly pass by, 

While here and there 
Stops one more curious, 

To banter or to stare. 

"Father is coming, darling, — 

There, — don't cry; 
He won't be gone for long, 

He '11 come by and by. 
You know he 's gone away, my sweet, 

To be a sailor on the sea; 
Gone far away, my pet, with words 

Of love for you and me. 

"They tell me he is dead, my dear; 

But never mind, 
He wouldn't go up there, and leave 

Us here behind. 



warren's select readings. 381 

He told us, darling, when he went, 

He would come back again ; 
And he would never break his word, 

The truest, best of men. 

"Ah, sir! I see you're smiling, 
And, with alarm, 

Draws back the sweet lady- 
Hanging on your arm. 

Miss, I was handsome once, 
But all this woe, 

This misery, and grief, and shame, 
Have brought me low. 

" Look at me with those large blue eyes, 

That tell of love, — 
Such eyes as sometimes beam on me 

From heaven above. 
I know your heart is good as is your face, 

And I will tell 
To you the sad, sad story 

That all know so well. 

" Father was stern, and cold, and proud, 

And when James said, 
* Let Rose, sir, be my wife, 

I love the maid,' — 
He laughed at him, and, with a sneer, 

Sent him away. 
God grant, ma'am, you may never know 

The sorrows of that day. 

" I loved him with a girl's first love, 
And, when he came 



382 warren's select readings. 

With father's surly message, 

Full of shame, 
I cheered him as I best knew how, 

Gave him my hand, 
Promised, through life, with him 

Alone I 'd stand. 

" It was in the winter, sir, 

When all was dead, 
And snow was on the ground, 

That we two fled. 
A good, kind parson married us : 

Dear soul ! 
I often, often think of him 

In this dark hole. 

" Then came trouble — no work, no bread ; 

And one October morn, 
When all was dark and drear, 

The child was born. 
See, he 's a pretty boy, sweet pet, 

With just his father's face; 
But, oh ! the good God grant, 

Without poor James' disgrace. 

"Things went from bad to worse — 

He took to drink, 
To gambling, robbery, and shame — 

I cannot think — 
Oh, no — he was mad then, I feel 

His was too good a heart 
To do aught ever that would 

Make mine smart. 



warren's select readings. 383 

"It came at last — the bitter hour — 

Hot words, a blow — 
He beat me cruelly — 

So, darling, so — 
And then we parted, and he went 

Off on the sea, 
Leaving the dark, blank world 

To baby here, and me. 

" ' Heard from him since ? ' you ask ; 

No, ma'am, never, 
Yet baby here and I 

Were waiting ever — 
Waiting to hear his voice once more, 

To see his face, 
To welcome him home again 

With a long, last embrace. 

"Oh, ma'am, 'tis sad to sit here, 

Far away from home, 
Waiting for one perhaps 

Will never come. 
They tell me he is dead, these people, 

Then they smile ; 
While I can only hope, and clasp 

My child the while. 

" Father is dead long since, they say, 

Died of a broken heart ; 
Cut from the wretched tragedy 

In which he played a part. 
Look, look ! see how the baby smiles ! 

Give him a penny, do ; 



384 warren's select readings. 

God grant, ma'am, all such misery- 
May never come to you." 

Out in the sparkling sunshine, 

In the merry autumn air, 
Where the breeze, in gaily passing, 

Kisses a cheek most fair — 
Within, four dark and dingy walls, 

That sigh with every breath 
Of the mother, with her woolen doll, 

Dying a living death. 

George W. Hows. 



THE EMPTY NEST. 



A SONG of a nest: 
There was once a nest in a hollow, 
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 
Soft and warm and full to the brim; 
Vetches leaned over it, purple and dim, 
With buttercup buds to follow. 

I pray you hear my song of a nest, 

For it is not long: 
You shall never light in a summer quest 

The bushes among — 
Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 

A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
That wind-like did come and go. 

I had a nestful once of my own, 
Ah, happy, happy I ! 



warren's select readings. 385 

Right dearly I loved them; but when they were 
grown, 

They spread out their wings to fly. 
Oh, one after one they flew away, 

Far up to the heavenly blue, 
To the better country, the upper day, 

And — I wish I was going, too. 

I pray you, what is the nest to me, 

My empty nest? 
And what is the shore where I stood to see 

My boat sail down to the west? 
Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 

Though my good man has sailed? 
Can I call that home where my nest was set, 

Now all my hope hath failed? 
Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 

And the land where my nestlings be, 
There is the home where my thoughts are sent, 

The only home for me ! Ah, me ! 

Jean Ingelow. 

WOMANHOOD AND SHAKESPEARE. 

IT may seem strange to go back three hundred years 
for a type of womanhood, but Shakespeare's ideal 
of womanhood is the ideal of our own day; it is 
never out of date, for the creations of the immortal 
poet are destined to endure for all time. Shakespeare 
is indeed the oracle of woman, for we find in his plays 
four heroines to one hero. Shakespeare has given 
us seven hundred characters, and not one resembles 
another ; but, considered as a whole, the men are 
33 Z 



386 warren's select readings. 

remarkable for their weakness, the women for their 
strength. We see Hamlet troubled with his father's 
ghost ; Macbeth frightened by imaginary daggers in 
the air ; Othello, the martyr rather than the hero ; 
King Lear sinned against rather than sinning, and 
exchanging his kingdom for a hovel ; Iago, a villain 
without a single virtue; Cardinal Wolsey being like a 
spider's web in the king's palace, until brushed away 
by the crown of Henry the Eighth ; Shylock demand- 
ing his three thousand ducats for three months ; An- 
tony selling the Roman Empire for a kiss. And 
then, in striking contrast, we see the lovely Miranda, 
the sprightly Rosalind, the gentle Ophelia, the queenly 
Catharine, the noble Cordelia, and Portia, who com- 
bines the virtues of them all. 

Let us take a few of his characters, and, using them 
as prisms, discover the nature of that radiance which 
illuminates them all. 

In Miranda, living with her father in an island se- 
clusion, we have a type of spotless innocence and 
purity, and nothing is more simply beautiful than the 
love-making between her and Ferdinand. 

Of all Shakespeare's creations, Rosalind, in "As 
You Like It" is the happiest. She has been well 
called the "crystal-hearted;" and her wit, unlike that 
of Beatrice, is never hard and cold. Ophelia and Ju- 
liet can best be studied in contrast. Juliet's home was 
in sunny Italy, the land of the flowers ; Ophelia's in 
gloomy Elsinore. Juliet is ever surrounded by gayety ; 
Ophelia stands against a dark back-ground of spectres 
and shadows. The love of Romeo and Juliet is the 
groundwork of their drama; that of Hamlet and 
Ophelia, but the silver thread that runs through the 



warren's select readings. 387 

play. But the lives of both illustrate the truth, that 
woman's devotion is " like apples of gold in pictures 
of silver." 

Where can we find a better example of wifely con- 
stancy through distrust and imprisonment than that of 
Queen Catharine ? 

King Lear differs from the rest of Shakespeare's 
plays, as sculpture differs from painting. The charac- 
ters are more clearly cut and distinct. Cordelia, mis- 
judged in heart, and deprived of her inheritance, re- 
turns at last to the aid of her father, a broken-down 
old man, praying to the storm. Of all the women of 
the great poet, Cordelia uses fewest words, but she 
says most. 

As a fitting type of the heroic, we have the saintly 
Isabel, willing to give her life, but not her honor, to 
rescue her brother from an ignominious death. 

Portia is the highest jewel in Shakespeare's casket, 
blending in her true womanliness the romantic, the 
domestic, and the heroic ; and nowhere does she ap- 
pear to better advantage than in the trial scene in the 
" Merchant of Venice!' than which there is but one 
grander in all history, that of Paul before Agrippa. 

Wallace Bruce. 



THE IRISHWOMAN'S LETTER. 

DEAR NEFFA : — I have n't sent ye a lettre since 
the last time I wrote to ye, becase we 've moved 
from our former places o' livin ; and I did n't know 
where a lettre would find ye ; but I now wid pleasure 
take up me pin to inform ye uv the deth of yer own 
livin Uncle Kilpatrick, who died very suddinly last 
wake, after a lingerin illness of six wakes. 



388 warren's select readings. 

The poor man was in violent convulsions the whole 
time of his illness, layin perfectly still all the while, 
spacheless intirely, talkin incoherently, and cryin for 
wather. I had no opportunity of informin ye by the 
last post, which wint two days before his deth, and 
thin you 'd had the postage to pay. I'm at a great loss 
to tell what his deth was occasioned by, but I fear it 
was by his last sickness. 

He niver was well tin days thegither durin the whole 
time of his confinement; but be that as it will, as soon 
as he brathed his last, the dochter gave up all hopes 
of his recovery. I need n't tell ye anything about his 
age, for ye well know that in May next he would have 
been twenty-five years old, lackin tin months ; and 
had he lived till that time, he thin would have been 
six months ded. 

His property is very considerable ; it devolved upon 
his nixt of kin, who is ded some time since, so that I 
expect it will be equally divided between us, and thin, 
my dear Laray, ye '11 get two-thirds o' the whole; and 
ye know he had a fine estate, which was sould to pay 
his debts, and the remainder he lost on the horse-race. 
But it was the opinion of all the ladies present that 
he would have won the race if that horse he ran 
against had n't been too fast for him ! bad luck to the 
baste ! 

But, poor sowl ! he '11 niver ate nor dhrink any more ; 
and now, Larry, ye have n't a livin relation in the wide 
world, except meself and yer two cousins that was 
kilt in the last war. 

But I can't dwell upon this mournful subject, but 
will sale the lettre with black sailin-wax, and put on 
yer uncle's coat of arms ; so I beg ye not to brake the 



warren's select readings. 389 

sale, when ye open the lettre, until two or three days 
after ye recave it, by that time ye will be better pre- 
pared for the mournful tidings. 

Yer ould swate-heart, Mary, sends her love to ye, 
unbeknownst to me. 

Whin the bearer of this arrives in Hamilton, ax him 
for this lettre, and if he does n't know which one it is, 
tell him it 's the wan that spakes of yer uncle's deth, 
and saled in black. — Judy (J Halligan. 



ENTHUSIASM OF THE HUNTRESS. 

(from london assurance.) 
Scene. — Max Harkaway's Drawing-Room. 

Present, Grace, Max Harkaway, Sir Harcourt Courtly, 
Young Courtly, and Dazzle. — James announces Mr. 
Adolphus and Lady Gay Spanker. 

[Enter Lady Gay, fully equipped in riding-habit, etc.] 

LADY GAY. Ha! ha! Well, governor, how are 
ye? I have been down five times, climbing up 
your stairs in my long clothes. How are you, Grace, 
dear? {Kisses her."] There, don't fidget, Max. And 
there — {kisses him~\ there 's one for you. 

Sir Harcourt. Ahem ! 

Lady Gay. Oh, gracious, I didn't see you had 
visitors. 

Max. Permit me to introduce — Sir Harcourt Courtly, 
Lady Gay Spanker. Mr. Dazzle, Mr. Hamilton — 
Lady Gay Spanker. 

Sir H. {Aside.] A very fine woman ! 

Dazzle. {Aside to Sir H.] She 's a very fine woman. 



390 warren's select readings. 

Lady Gay. You must n't think anything of the liber- 
ties I take with my old papa here — bless him ! 

Sir H. Oh, no ! [Aside.~\ I only thought I should 
like to be in his place. 

Lady Gay. I am so glad you have come, Sir Har- 
court. Now we shall be able to make a decent figure 
at the heels of a hunt. 

Sir H. Does your ladyship hunt ? 

Lady Gay. Ha ! I say, governor, does my ladyship 
hunt? I rather flatter myself that I do hunt! Why, 
Sir Harcourt, one might as well live without laughing 
as without hunting. Man was fashioned expressly to 
fit a horse. Are not hedges and ditches created for 
leaps ? Of course ! And I look upon foxes to be one 
of the most blessed dispensations of a benign Provi- 
dence. 

Sir H. Yes, it is all very well in the abstract : I tried 
it once. 

Lady Gay. Once ; only once ? 

Sir H. Once ; only once. And then the animal ran 
away with me. 

Lady Gay. Why, you would not have him walk ? 

Sir H. Finding my society disagreeable, he insti- 
tuted a series of kicks, with a view to removing the 
annoyance; but, aided by the united stays of the mane 
and tail, I frustrated his intentions. [All laugh^] His 
next resource, however, was more effectual, for he suc- 
ceeded in rubbing me off against a tree. 

Max and Lady Gay. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Daz. How absurd you must have looked, with your 
legs and arms in the air, like a shipwrecked tea-table ! 

Sir H. Sir, I never looked absurd in my life. Ah, 
it may be very amusing in relation, I dare say, but 
very unpleasant in effect. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 39I 

Lady Gay. I pity you, Sir Harcourt ; it was criminal 
in your parents to neglect your education so shame- 
fully. 

Sir H. Possibly ; but be assured, I shall never break 
my neck awkwardly from a horse, when it might be 
accomplished with less trouble from a bedroom win- 
dow. 

Young Courtly. [Aside.'] My dad will be caught by 
this she-Bucephalus-tamer. 

Max. Ah, Sir Harcourt, had you been here a month 
ago, you would have witnessed the most glorious run 
that ever swept over merry England's green cheek — 
a steeple-chase, sir, which I intended to win, but my 
horse broke down the day before. I had a chance, 
notwithstanding, and but for Gay here, I should have 
won. How I regretted my absence from it. How did 
my filly behave herself, Gay ? 

Lady Gay. Gloriously, Max ! gloriously ! There 
were sixty horses in the field, all mettle to the bone ; 
the start was a picture — away we went in a cloud — 
pell-mell — helter-skelter — the fools first, as usual, 
using themselves up — we soon passed them — first 
your Kitty, then my Blueskin, and Craven's colt last. 
Then came the tug — Kitty skimmed the walls — 
Blueskin flew over the fences — the Colt neck and- 
neck, and half a mile to run — at last the Colt baulked 
a leap and went wild. Kitty and I had it all to our- 
selves — she was three lengths ahead as we breasted 
the last wall, six feet, if an inch, and a ditch on the 
other side. Now, for the first time, I gave Blueskin 
his head — ha ! ha ! Away he flew like a thunderbolt 
— over went the filly — I over the same spot, leaving 
Kitty in the ditch — walked the steeple, eight miles in 
thirty minutes, and scarcely turned a hair. 



392 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

All. Bravo! Bravo! 

Lady Gay. Do you hunt? 

Dazzle. Hunt! I belong to a hunting family. I 
was born on horseback and cradled in a kennel. Ay, 
and I hope I may die with a whoo-whoop ! 

Max. [To Sir H.~\ You must leave your town habits 
in the smoke of London ; here we rise with the lark. 

Sir H. Have n't the remotest conception of when 
that period is. 

Grace. The man that misses sunrise loses the sweet- 
est part of his existence. 

Sir H. Oh, pardon me ; I have seen sunrise fre- 
quently after a ball, or from the windows of my trav- 
elling-carriage, and I always considered it disagreeable. 

Grace. I love to watch the first tear that glistens in 
the opening eye of morning, the silent song the flow- 
ers breathe, the thrilling choir of the woodland min- 
strels, to which the modest brook trickles applause : — 
these, swelling out the sweetest chord of sweet crea- 
tion's matins, seem to pour some soft and merry tale 
into the daylight's ear, as if the waking world had 
dreamed a happy thing, and now smiled o'er the 
telling it. 

Sir H. The effect of a rustic education ! Who could 
ever discover music in a damp, foggy morning ? In fact, 
I never heard any music worth listening to, except in 
Italy. 

Lady Gay. Then you never heard a well-trained 
English pack in full cry? 

Sir H. Full cry ! 

Lady Gay. Ay ! there is harmony, if you will. Give 
me the trumpet-neigh ; the spotted pack just catch- 
ing scent. What a chorus is their yelp ! The view- 



warren's select readings. 393 

halloo, blent with a peal of free and fearless mirth ! 
That 's our old English music, — match it where you 



can 



Sir H. [Aside.~] I must see about Lady Gay Spanker. 
Daz. [Aside to Sir H.~\ Ah, would you — 
Lady Gay. Time then appears as young as love, 
and plumes as swift a wing. Away we go ! The 
earth flies back to aid our course ! Horse, man, hound, 
earth, heaven ! — all — all — one piece of glowing ec- 
stasy ! Then I love the world, myself, and every living 
thing, — my jocund soul cries out for very glee, as it 
could wish that all creation had but one mouth, that 
I might kiss it. — Dion Boucicaidt. 



HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 

A lay made about the year of the city ccclx. 

LARS PORSENA of Clusium, by the nine gods he 
swore that the great house of Tarquin 
Should suffer wrong no more. By the nine gods he 

swore it, 
And named a trysting-day, and bade his messengers 

ride forth 
East and west, and south and north, to summon his 
array. 

East and west and south and north the messengers 

ride fast, 
And tower, and town, and cottage have heard the 

trumpet's blast. 
Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home, 
When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome. 



394 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

And now hath every city sent up her tale of men ; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thou- 
sands ten, 
Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array ; 
A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting-day. 

They held a council standing before the river gate ; 
Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing 

or debate. 
Out spoke the Council roundly: a The bridge must 

straight go down ; 
For since Janiculum is lost, naught else can save the 

town." 

Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and 

fear ; 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul ; Lars Porsena is 

here." 
On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye, 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the 

sky. 

But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech 

was low, 
And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. 
" Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes 

down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to 

save the town ? " 

Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or 
late. 



warren's select readings. 395 

And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, 
For the ashes of his fathers and the temples of his 
gods? 

" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed 

ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. 
In yon straight path a thousand may well be stopped 

by three. 
Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the 

bridge with me ? " 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius — a Ramnian proud 

was he — 
" Lo ! I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the 

bridge with thee." 
And out spake strong Herminius — of Titian blood 

was he — 
" I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge 

with thee." 

" Horatius," quoth the Consul, " as thou sayest, so let 

it be." 
And straight against that great array forth went the 

dauntless Three. 
For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor 

gold, 
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days 

of old. 

But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been 

plied, 
And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling 

tide. 



396 warren's select readings. 

" Come back, come back, Horatius ! " loud cried the 

fathers all : 
" Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! back, ere the ruin 

fall ! " 

Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the 

timbers crack ; 
But when they turned their faces, and on the farther 

shore 
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have 

crossed once more. 

Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind ; 
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood 

behind. 
" Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, with a smile on 

his pale face. 
"Now yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena, "now yield 

thee to our grace ! " 

Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks 

to see; 
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought 

spake he ; 
But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home, 
And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the 

towers of Rome : 

" O Tiber ! Father Tiber ! to whom the Romans 

pray, 
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge 

this day ! " 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 397 

So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword 

by his side, 
And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong 

in the tide. 

But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months 

of rain ; 
And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in 

pain, 
And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing 

blows : 
And oft they thought him sinking — but still again he 

rose. 

" Curse on him ! " quoth false Sextus ; " will not the 
villain drown ? 

But for his stay, ere the close of day we should have 
sacked the town ! " 

" Heaven help him ! " quoth Lars Porsena, " and bring 
him safe to shore ; 

For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen be- 
fore." 

And now he feels the bottom ; — now on dry earth he 

stands ; 
Now round him throng the fathers to press his gory 

hands. 
And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of 

weeping loud, 
He enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous 

crowd. T. B. Macaulay. 

34 



398 warren's select readings. 

DANIEL GRAY. 

IF I shall ever win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well; in fact, few knew him better; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready winds his freight of gratitude, 

And was not called upon among the gifted 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes; 

And, I suppose, that in his prayers and graces 
I 've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, and face, and motions, 
His homespun habit and his silver hair — 

And hear the language of his trite devotions 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
"Help us, O Lord, 'to pray and not to faint!" 

And how the "conquering and to conquer" rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint 

He had some notions that did not improve him — 
He never kissed his children, so they say ; 



warren's select readings. 399 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horseshoe picked up by the way. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 

And, I am told, that when his Charley died, 
Nor Nature's need nor gentle word could win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley, 

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkling in his hair, 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 

And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer, 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way 

His mighty Friend in heaven, the great Redeemer, 
Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit 
Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 



400 WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven 

I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

J. G. Holland. 



^MR. BUMBLE AND MRS. CORNEY. 

Scene. — Mrs. Corney's apartment. A small round table, on 
which is a furnished tea-tray. A small teakettle on the fire. 

MRS. CORNEY {leaning her elbow on the table, and 
looking reflectively at the fire). Well, I 'm sure we 
have all on us a great deal to be thankful for, — a great 
deal, if we did but know it ! Ah ! (Proceeds to make tea. 
Spills water, and slightly scalds her hand?) Drat the 
pot ! a little stupid thing that only holds a couple of 
cups ! What use is it of to anybody! except — except 
to a poor desolate creature like me. O dear ! (Dropping 
into her chair, and resting her elbow on the table again.) 
I shall never get another! I shall never get another — 
like him. (A rap is heard.) Oh, come in with you ! 
(sharply.) Some of the old women dying, I suppose. 
They always die when I 'm at meals. Don't stand there 
letting the cold air in, — don't ! What 's amiss now, eh ? 

Mr. Bumble (outside). Nothing, ma'am ; nothing. 

Mrs. C. Dear me ! (in a much sweeter tone) is that 
Mr. Bumble ? 

Mr. B. (entering with his cocked hat in one hand, and 
a bundle in the other). At your service, ma'am. Shall 
I shut the door, ma'am ? (Shuts it.) 

Mrs. C. Hard weather, Mr. Bumble. 

Mr. B. Hard, indeed, ma'am. Anti-porochial 
weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 4OI 

Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty 
quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very 
blessed afternoon ; and yet them paupers are not 
contented. 

Mrs. C. Of course not. When would they be, Mr. 
Bumble ? {sipping her tea.) 

Mr. B. When, indeed, ma'am ! Why, here 's one 
man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, 
has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full 
weight. Is he grateful, ma'am, — is he grateful ? Not 
a copper farthing's worth of it ! What does he do, 
ma'am, but ask for a few coals, — if it 's only a pocket- 
handkerchief full, he says ! Coals ! What would he 
do with coals ? Toast his cheese with 'em and then 
come back for more. That 's the way with these 
people, ma'am. Give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, 
and they '11 come back for another the day after to- 
morrow, as brazen as alabaster. {Mrs. C. makes signs 
of assent)) I never see anything like the pitch it's 
got to. The day before yesterday a man — you have 
been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it 
to you — a man with hardly a rag upon his back, 
{Mrs. C. looks at the floor) goes to our overseer's door 
when he has got company coming to dinner, and says 
he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he would n't 
go away, and shocked the company very much, our 
overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half 
a pint of oatmeal. 4< My heart! " says the ungrateful 
villain, " what 's the use of this to me ? You might 
as well give me a pair of iron spectacles ! " " Very 
good," says our overseer, taking 'em away again ; 
" you won't get anything else here." " Then I '11 die 

34* 2A 



402 

in the streets ! " says the vagrant. " Oh, no, you won't," 
says our overseer. 

Mrs. C. Ha, ha ! That was very good ! So like 
Mr. Grannett, was n't it ? Well, Mr. Bumble ! 

Mr. B. Well, ma'am, he went away ; and he did die 
in the streets. There 's an obstinate pauper for you ! 

Mrs. C. It beats everything I could have believed. 
But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad 
thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman 
of experience, and ought to know. Come. 

Mr. B. Mrs. Corney {with the air of superior infor- 
mation), out-of-door relief properly managed — prop- 
erly managed, ma'am — is the porochial safeguard. 
The great principle of out-of-door relief is to give the 
paupers exactly what they don't want, and then they 
get tired of coming. 

Mrs. C. Dear me ! Well, that is a good one, too ! 

Mr. B. Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am, that 's 
the great principle ; and that 's the reason why, if you 
look at any cases that get into them owdacious 
newspapers, you '11 always* observe that sick families 
have been relieved with slices of cheese. That 's the 
rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, 
however {stooping to unpack his bundle), these are 
official secrets, ma'am ; not to 'be spoken of, except, 
as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as 
ourselves. This is the port-wine, ma'am, that the 
board ordered for the infirmary ; real, fresh, genuine 
port-wine, only out of the cask this forenoon, clear 
as a bell, no sediment ! {Sets away the two bottles of 
wine ; folds the handkerchief in which they had been 
wrapped, puts it carefully in his pocket, and takes up 
his hat as if to go.) 



warren's select readings. 403 

Mrs. C. You '11 have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble. 

Mr. B. It blows, ma'am {turning up his coat-collar), 
enough to blow one's ears off. {Moves toward the 
door?) 

Mrs. C. Would n't you — would n't you take a cup 
of tea ? {Mr. B. turns back his coat-collar, lays his hat 
and stick upon a chair, draws another chair up to the 
table, and seats himself. Mrs. C. gets another cup and 
saucer, and prepares his tea?) Sweet? {Taking up the 
sugar-basing 

Mr. B. Very sweet, indeed, ma'am. {Fixing his eyes 
tenderly on Mrs. C, who hands him the tea. Spreads a 
handkerchief on his knees, fetching occasionally a deep 
sigh) You have a cat, ma'am, I see ; and kittens, too, 
I declare ! 

Mrs. C. I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't 
think. They are so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheer- 
ful, that they are quite companions for me. 

Mr. B. Very nice animals, ma'am ; so very do- 
mestic. 

Mrs. C. Oh, yes ! so fond of their home, too, that it's 
quite a pleasure, I'm sure. 

Mr. B. Mrs. Corney, ma'am {slowly, and marking the 
time with his teaspoon), I mean to say this, ma'am, that 
any cat or kitten that could live with you, ma'am, and 
not be fond of its home, must be an ass, ma'am. 

Mrs. C. Oh, Mr. Bumble ! 

Mr. B. It 's of no use disguising facts, ma'am {slowly 
flourishing the teaspooii) ; I would drown it myself, with 
pleasure. 

Mrs. C. Then you 're a cruel man {holding out her 
hand for his cup), and a very hard-hearted man, be- 
sides. 



404 warren's select readings. 

Mr. B. Hard-hearted, ma'am, hard ! {Squeezes Mrs. 
C.'s little finger as she takes the cup, slaps his heart twice, 
heaves a mighty sigh y and gradually hitches his chair 
around the table, close to Mrs. C.) Hard-hearted, Mrs. 
Corney ? {Stirring his tea and looking up into her face '.) 
Are you hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney ? 

Mrs. C. Dear me ! what a very curious question from 
a single man ! What can you want to know for, Mr. 
Bumble ? {Mr. B. drinks his tea, finishes a piece of toast, 
whisks the crumbs off his knees, wipes his lips, and de- 
liberately kisses Mrs. C.) Mr. Bumble {in a frightened 
whisper), Mr. Bumble, I shall scream ! {Mr. B. puts 
his arm round her waist. A hasty knock is heard at the 
door. Mr. B. darts to the wine bottles, and begins dusting 
them with great violence?) Who 's there ? {loudly and 
sharply.) 

A Pauper {putting her head in at the door). If you 
please, Mistress, old Sally is a-going fast. 

Mrs. C. Well, what 's that to me ? {angrily?) I can't 
keep her alive, can I ? 

Pauper. No, no, Mistress, nobody can ; she 's far 
beyond the reach of help. But she 's troubled in her 
mind; and when the fits are not on her, — and that's 
not often, for she is dying very hard, — she says she 
has got something to tell which you must hear. She '11 
never die quiet till you come, Mistress. 

Mrs. C. It 's a shame that old women can't die with- 
out purposely annoying their betters {muffling herself 
in a shawl). Mr. Bumble, perhaps you 'd better stay 
till I come back, lest anything particular should occur. 
{Amiably to Mr. B. ; then crossly to the pauper) Walk 
fast ! don't be all night hobbling out o' the way. 

Charles Dickens. 



warren's select readings. 405 

THE LONG AGO. 

OH ! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 
As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, 
As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, 

And the summers, like buds between; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go, 
On the river's breast with its ebb and flow, 

As it glides in the shadow and sheen. 

There 's a magical Isle up the river of Time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 
There 's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of that Isle is the " Long Ago," 

And we bury our treasures there ; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
There are heaps of dust — but we loved them so ! — 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair : 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer; 
There 's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings ; 
There are broken vows, and pieces of rings, 

And garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore 
By the mirage is lifted in air ; 



406 warren's select readings. 

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 
When the wind down the river is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye be that blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life till night! 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile, 

May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight ! 



A BATTLE-SONG OF FREEDOM. 

MEN of action ! men of might ! 
Stern defenders of the right! 
Are you girded for the fight? 

Have you marked and trenched the ground 
Where the din of arms must sound, 
Ere the victor can be crowned ? 

Have you guarded well the coast? 
Have you marshalled all your host? 
Standeth each man at his post? 

Have you counted up the cost ? 
What is gained and what is lost, 
When the foe your lines have cross 'd ? 

Gained — the infamy of fame, 
Gained — a dastard's spotted name, 
Gained — eternity of shame. 



WARREN S SELECT READINGS. 407 

Lost — desert of manly youth. 
Lost — the right you had by birth. 
Lost — lost ! — Freedom for the earth. 

Freemen, up! The foe is nearing! 
Haughty banners high uprearing — 
Lo, their serried ranks appearing ! 

Freemen, on ! The drums are beating ! 
Will you shrink from such a meeting? 
Forward ! give them hero greeting ! 

From your hearths, and homes, and altars 
Backward hurl your proud assaulters; 
He is not a man that falters. 

Hush ! The hour of fate is nigh ; 
On the help of God rely ! 
Forward ! We will do or die. 

G. Hamilton. 



CENTENNIAL HYMN. 

OUR fathers' God! from out whose hand 
The centuries fall like grains of sand, 
We meet to-day, united, free, 
And loyal to our land and Thee, 
To thank Thee for the era done, 
And trust Thee for the opening one. 

Here, where of old, by Thy design, 
The fathers spake that word of Thine, 



408 warren's select readings. 

Whose echo is the glad refrain 
Of rended bolt and falling chain, 
To grace our festal time from all 
The zones of earth our guests we call. 

Be with us while the New World greets 
The Old World thronging all its streets, 
Unveiling all the triumphs won 
By art or toil beneath the sun; 
And unto common good ordain 
This rivalship of hand and brain. 

Thou who hast here in concord furled 
The war-flags of a gathered world, 
Beneath our western skies fulfil 
The orient mission of good-will ; 
And, freighted with love's golden fleece, 
Send back the Argonauts of peace. 

For art and labor met in truce, 
For beauty made the bride of use, 
We thank Thee, while withal we crave 
The austere virtues, strong to save; 
The honor, proof to place or gold ; 
The manhood, never bought nor sold. 

Oh ! make Thou us through centuries long, 
In peace secure, in justice strong; 
Around our gift of freedom draw 
The safeguards of Thy righteous law, 
And, cast in some diviner mould, 
Let the new cycle shame the old. 

jf. G. Whittier. 
the end. 

638 >.*■■ 






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